


No One Mourns The Wicked

by boywholivednotdied



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Getting Together, I'm just salty and needed to write braime fic, Jaime and Brienne falling for each other, Jaime and Tyrion being BROS, Jaime rejecting Cersei, Jealousy, Pining, a lot of me being salty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-04-08 07:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19102594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boywholivednotdied/pseuds/boywholivednotdied
Summary: Tywin forces Jaime to stay in Riverrun for a month as a guest of the Tullys in the hopes that Jaime will agree to marry Lord Hoster's daughter, Lysa. It's bad enough that Lysa is obsessed beyond comprehension with being a mother and Tyrion is insistent on putting himself in danger, but Jaime also has to deal with Catelyn Tully's sworn sword - an ugly, irritating, stubborn wench who seems to be popping up absolutely everywhere.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is my first ever Braime fic, though I've been dying to write them for ages. There are tons of fix-it fics being put up every day, so I figured I would write a total AU. I have only read the first two books, so this will mostly be show canon. But barely show canon either, tbh. I know a lot of the ages and timelines probably don't line up with that of the show and books, but if D&D can ignore canon so can I right? 
> 
> I was originally going to pretend the twincest was not a thing, but after 8x05 I needed Jaime to say 'Screw you' to Cersei and run into Brienne's arms so... twincest is a thing in this fic. I should be commended on not constantly throwing up in my mouth while writing them. 
> 
> Warnings include: light swearing, some allusions to rape (but no actual rape), references to the incest but no actual scenes of it.  
> I'm still trying to figure out whether there will be a sex scene in the fic so I'll change the ratings accordingly if I do add it.

****PART ONE** **

**ONE.**  

Admittedly, part of Jaime’s decision had been motivated by spite.

Cersei had agreed to marry Robert Baratheon, the king of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jaime knew that she harboured affections for him. Once, in bed, she’d talked for half an hour about Robert’s rebellion and his prowess in war, until Jaime had curled on his side and lied about being too sleepy to talk.

Of course, he’d been involved in the same war, but he’d been on the wrong side so it didn’t count. At least that's what Cersei said. 

She hadn’t told Jaime about her decision herself. He’d heard from Tywin, like the rest of their family. Jaime had immediately offered to join the kingsguard so that he may accompany her to King’s Landing and protect her - and, naturally, so he could be with her as well - but she had looked at him with a strange look in her eyes and told him to stay in Casterly Rock. She said it was because she was worried someone would discover them. She said that if Robert discovered they were lovers he would kill Jaime and the discovery would bring great shame upon their house. But he knew her, and he knew what her true motives were.

She did not want him there.

She’d always known how to get under his skin in a way no one else did - a result, he supposed, of being lovers as well as sharing a childhood - but this… this crushed him. He was still smarting from the blow when Tywin had come to him with the proposal.

Alright, so the decision was completely motivated by spite. He’d always been a jealous man. It was a peculiar trait for him to have, considering he didn’t usually have much to be jealous of. He was the golden boy of the Lannister household despite his disagreeable nickname, one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom and one of the richest too. He was a seasoned knight and the heir to Casterly Rock.

Perhaps that was why he was prone to jealousy. He wasn’t used to wanting things.

He’d never met Lysa Tully before. He’d heard things, of course. That she was beautiful and delicate, with blue eyes and thick auburn hair that fell to her waist. But it was a description of her looks, and it didn’t seem enough to know about the woman he was expected to marry. Unfortunately, it was him pointing this out that had convinced Tywin to arrange the month-long stay at Riverrun.

He was grateful that Tyrion was accompanying him, despite the fact that the entire situation was supremely amusing to his younger brother and that he would likely be more trouble than he was worth.

Still, Jaime loved his company. The entire ride from The Rock to the Riverlands, Tyrion had kept up a steady stream of chatter. This might have annoyed anyone else, but Jaime was used to it. In a way, he found the familiar lilt of his little brother’s voice quite soothing.

“Lysa Tully,” Tyrion mused, looking out of the carriage window at the green expanse of rolling fields. “I’ve heard she’s got a mind like a stream.”

“What does that mean?” Jaime asked. His eyes were fixed on the hutments they passed, smoke rising steadily from their chimneys.

“Wet, slow, shallow, and prone to bouts of drying up completely.” Tyrion grinned, but when Jaime tried and failed to crack a smile, Tyrion’s own faltered.

“Those are just rumours,” Jaime said, finally. He didn’t want to think about Lysa Tully. He didn’t want to think about what he’d gotten himself into at all.

“Rumours like those of you and our sister?”

Jaime shot him a sharp look and Tyrion grinned back. Jaime shook his head. He’d never really been able to stay angry at Tyrion for very long. Cersei had always said Jaime had a soft spot for him, but that wasn’t true. He wasn’t just fond of his brother - he loved him with an acute fierceness he didn’t afford to many others. He was his brother’s champion. To say his love for the youngest Lannister was ‘a soft spot’ was a gross understatement.

Of course, Cersei would never understand that. She’d hated Tyrion from the moment he was born.

The carriage stuttered over the rutted road as it weaved through the marketplace. The people of the Riverlands stared at the golden carriage and the red and gold Lannister banners that flew high above them. Jaime longed to be with the rest of the guards accompanying them, riding a horse with the wind in his hair, but Tyrion had always had trouble riding, so Jaime had opted to sit in the carriage with him. He scrubbed a hand over his face and fell back onto his pillows.

In the seat across from him, Tyrion was watching him carefully. His legs that were dangling over the seat, not reaching the ground, swayed as the carriage wheels hit another hole in the road.

Tyrion’s silence was unusual and uncomfortable and Jaime couldn’t bear it any longer. “What is it?” he asked, a little crabbier than he’d intended.

“You do... want to do this, don’t you?”

Jaime made a noncommittal humming sound.

“This isn’t just a ploy to make Cersei jealous?” Tyrion pushed.

Jaime sighed. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

For a moment they fell back into the silence. When Jaime finally chanced a look at his brother, he found he was still watching him in that disconcerting way. Jaime raised his eyebrows, an invitation for Tyrion to spill whatever it was that was eating him up inside.

“What if…” Tyrion began, and then abruptly changed tacks. “I mean… perhaps this is for the best. If you and Cersei were to- I mean… she has been with other men before, and it’s always made you fee-”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Jaime snapped. Tyrion seemed unaffected by his harsh tone, but Jaime took a moment to collect himself. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”

What could he possibly say? _I’m regretting this already? Cersei always said I was the dumbest Lannister, and this just makes it official?_ The Tullys were expecting him. It was far too late to turn back now. And anyway, what if it worked? What if Cersei saw him considering Lysa as an option and realised she’d made a mistake? That was the only thing keeping him going. She had to get jealous. She had to change her mind about marrying Robert.

“I’m… nervous.”

“Nervous?” Tyrion asked, scoffing. “What for?”

“This is _marriage._ This is the rest of my bloody life.”

“No one is making you do this.”

“ _Father_ is making me do this.”

“Well…” Tyrion said, shrugging. “You could always do what I do. Marry whores. Drink till you pass out. Bring him immense shame by merely existing.”

Jaime smirked. “I suppose we can keep that as the alternative.”

Tyrion grinned. “What’s the immediate plan of action then?”

“Let’s cross our fingers and hope she’s uninterested in me.”

“That’s simple enough to ensure,” Tyrion said. “Just be yourself.”

“I can no longer remember why I wanted you to come along,” Jaime grumbled, but a grin pulled at the corners of his lips anyway.

***

The Castle at Riverrun was almost as large as the one in which Jaime had grown up. Though it smelled different from The Rock; like freshly baked bread and wet mud. The staircases were plain. Jaime saw no banners strung up on the walls as they made their way from their assigned rooms, down to the main hall. A servant in worn livery led the way through the stone corridors to the ground floor where the feast was being held.

Tyrion gave Jaime a meaningful look as the servant pushed open the heavy wooden doors. Immediately, the smell of roasted pork hit him. Chandeliers of melting candles hung over rows and rows of tables. On each of them, men in armour and women in long dresses sat, laughing and sloshing wine into the wood.

“Now this,” Tyrion said, “is my kind of evening.”

Before Jaime could respond, Lord Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun, was at their side, shaking their hands enthusiastically as he lead them to the middle table. He was but a boy but seemed to think he was already a man grown. He stopped in front of two pale girls with thick auburn hair. One beamed brightly up at him as the other sat straight-backed and disinterested. He immediately could tell which was which.

Lord Hoster Tully joined them then. He was a grim, serious man and he shook their hands and informed them that Edmure would take care of them during their stay. He then seated Jaime across from Lysa, while Tyrion took the place across from Catelyn. Besides Catelyn was a thin weaselly boy who she introduced as Petyr.

Jaime was exhausted from his trip and dreaded the idea of making casual conversation all night. He hoped he could just listen to the conversation between Catelyn, Tyrion and Petyr about the skirmishes at Winterfell, but if this was apparent to Lysa, she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead she leaned forward so far across the table that strands of her hair fell into his soup and she gave him a smile that he could tell was her attempt at being coquettish.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” she said, giggling, as though his name in itself was the joke. “I heard you defeated Ser Barristan Selmy in hand-to-hand combat in Prince Rhaegar’s name-day tournament.”

“I suspect it was a fluke,” Jaime said, honestly. “He’s far more skilled than I.”

“So humble,” she said, leaning even further towards him. Jaime had to resist the urge to cringe as more of her hair fell into his soup. “You are quite handsome, Ser Jaime.”

“Oh… well… thank you.”

“Do you find me beautiful?”

Jaime darted a quick glance at Tyrion, but he was wrapped up in an argument with Petyr and didn’t seem to be paying Jaime any attention. “Oh… uh… of course.”

She seemed happy with that, despite his stuttering. She tucked some of her hair behind her ear and then smiled at him. “I think I would make the most _beautiful_ children.”

“I think so too.”

“If we were to have children together, they would be absolutely ravishing, would they not?”

Jaime choked on his wine.

“Tell me, Ser Jaime, how many women have you been with?” 

“I… _excuse me_?”

“Oh come now,” she said, huffing. She sat back down onto her place and crossed her arms across her chest. “You’re a handsome man. Red-blooded. I’m sure you’ve _ravaged_ many a women.”

“Lysa,” Catelyn snapped. She turned to Jaime, and from her careful expression itself he could tell she was wise for her years. “Do tell us about Casterly Rock, Ser Jaime. I’ve heard it’s lovely.”

Jaime had never been more grateful for a change in conversation. He began a description of The Rock which was soon taken over by Tyrion, who continued talking for the rest of the night, regaling them with stories about their childhood. Jaime sat back and drank several more cups of wine, until the room started getting blurry around the edges.

Catelyn excused herself and Jaime quickly followed suit, stating that he was exhausted from his journey. He grabbed Tyrion and they made their way up to their rooms. Instead of going into his own, however, Tyrion followed Jaime into his allotted chambers.

“You aren’t actually going to sleep, are you?” Tyrion asked, falling backwards onto the bed.

“I was planning on it. Why? What exactly were you hoping to do?”

“Look around us, dear brother. Are we in Casterly Rock?”

Tyrion never called him _dear brother_ unless he was planning on proposing something preposterous. Jaime yanked off his belt and threw it on a nearby chair. Tyrion sat up.

“Jaime, you know father despises it when I visit the brothels.”

“I do.”

“And father isn’t here.”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

“A dwarf, all alone, walking down the strange streets of Riverrun! They will steal my money at best. At worst, you will find my decapitated corpse rotting in the gutters…”

Jaime groaned and Tyrion knew what it meant. He leapt up from the bed, grinning. “You will not regret this.”

“I’m already regretting it,” Jaime muttered.

***

Jaime had no interest in visiting the brothels himself. He never voiced it out loud, but he found the act of love sacred, to be performed between two people who harboured affections for each other. It was why, admittedly, the only woman he’d ever been with was Cersei. The very idea of sleeping with someone who was only feigning interest because he’d paid them to didn’t seem very appealing to him. 

Tyrion had marched straight into the nearest brothel, telling Jaime he’d be done in an hour, so Jaime had wandered down the streets, hood of his cloak pulled up to hide his face. It was the peak of the night, the sky inky and clear. Nothing was open except a tavern, a dingy thing with broken windows and cracked floorboards. The floors were sticky and the smell of ale hung heavy in the air, pressing down on him. The crowds were so thick, it was hard to breathe.

Jaime felt eyes on the back of his neck and turned to see a dainty girl with dirty blonde hair standing by the window with a tray in her hand. He smiled at her and she blushed and looked away. Jaime continued pushing his way through the crowds of men to the bar.

He wasn’t about to wait in the line. Perhaps if he dropped his father’s name they’d serve him first.

An unbelievably tall man with broad shoulders and such bright yellow hair it was almost white, was attempting to flag down the bartender. There was no space for Jaime to squeeze through to get any closer to the bar, so he tapped the tall man on the shoulder, planning to ask him if he would order an ale for him as well. The man turned around, and Jaime was met with a pair of astonishing blue eyes.

He was not a man. He was a _woman._

“Gods… look at you,” he blurted out, before he could stop himself. “You’re taller than I am.”

“Can I help you?” she asked, a bite in her voice. Not a peasant, Jaime noted. Her was accent crisp and clear. She was a lady, not a commoner.

“Where did you escape from? Is there a zoo nearby that I don’t know about?”

She loomed almost a foot taller than him, and Jaime had to tip his head a little upwards to look her in the face. She pointed to the men gathered behind her.

“There’s a line,” she said, crisply.

“I’m fine where I am,” he responded, cheerily.

She turned back to the bar, clenching her jaw.

“You know,” Jaime said, sidling closer to her. “If you could just let me to the front…”

“You don’t seem to know how things work,” she snapped, blocking him. “I was here first, which means I get to order my drinks first.”

“You don’t seem to be having any luck. I’m positive it’s not because they can’t see you.”

The woman pressed her lips together, raising her arm higher.

“Do you know how women use their feminine wiles to get the attention of men? Well… I suppose you don’t.” He gestured vaguely at her form, and her eyes flashed, but her gaze remained on the barmaid. “Men have ways too,” he said. “For example, if I were to…”

“Piss off,” she said.

“That’s no way for a lady to talk.”

“Good thing I’m not a lady,” she snarled.

Jaime was getting caught up in the quick back and forth. It was surprisingly refreshing, an entertaining way of whiling away the evening, but at that moment the lively barmaid came strolling up to them. Jaime watched as the large wench ordered a pitcher of wine and a tankard of ale. She knocked into Jaime as she passed him and he had to keep a smirk off his face.

He got himself an ale quite fast - no one else bothered trying to stop him - and wound his way back through the crowds of sweaty men. Most of the tables were full, so Jaime seated himself at the edge of a table that was already occupied with several bearded men who paid no attention to him. They were having a fierce discussion about jousting - who would win? Sandor Clegane or his brother? - and thumping their metal cups against the wooden table, splashing ale all over each other’s shoes. Jaime crinkled his nose and picked at the splinters off the bench.

Forty-five minutes to go.

The ale was thin, the consistency of dishwater, and tasted the way he imagined piss would. He told himself he would bring a flask of wine from the castle the next time - if there was a next time. He really hoped there wouldn’t be.

The door swung open and a group of men with high riding boots and torn coats came swaggering in. Jaime noticed the swords at their belts and the way their pockets seemed to clink. Sellswords, he guessed.

The conversation of the men on his table was starting to irk him. They seemed to believe The Mountain would win, when Jaime knew it would be The Hound. He didn’t think they would appreciate him interjecting, however, so he looked around for the large woman again. His eyes travelled over dark heads and found the girl with dirty blonde hair, but he quickly averted his gaze, not wishing her to come over.

He saw the big woman finally, her large lumbering frame at a table in the corner. She was hunched over her tankard of ale, talking to a small figure who was barely illuminated by the candle in between them. A man, with dark hair.

A date? Unlikely. Husband? Also unlikely.

It took Jaime a long moment to realise he knew the man.

He wound his way back through the crowd, his ale sloshing to the wooden floors as men and women bumped into him. The tall woman spotted him coming over, and the faint smile on her face melted away, transforming into a look of mild horror. At her expression, her companion looked over at Jaime. His face, however, broke into a wide smile.

“Jaime Lannister!” Renly said, as Jaime walked over to the table.

“Renly Baratheon,” Jaime returned. He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and spun it around, pulling it up to theirs. The woman started to protest as Jaime sat down, but he looked pointedly away from her, focusing his attention on Renly. “I haven’t seen you since you were a boy. What are you doing in the Riverlands?”

“We were in the Iron Islands on some business. Now we’re headed to King’s Landing. Going to pay our respects to my brother and the new would-be-queen,” he said. His gaze hovered over Jaime, trying to read his expression. Jaime kept his face as expressionless as possible. “I’d assumed you would be there too.”

“No,” Jaime said, ignoring the pangs of jealousy in his chest and leaning back so the front legs of his chair lifted slightly off the ground. “I’m far too busy to stay in one place, I’m afraid.” He turned to the woman at the table before Renly could press him anymore. “And who is this strapping young gentleman? Your newest lover, perhaps?”

The woman turned her blazing eyes on Jaime, and seeing them, so close, he startled. The rest of her face was unremarkable, but her eyes… they were a striking blue. The almost painful blue of the sky on a cloudless day of summer. The blue of bluebird eggs and sapphires.

Renly, to his credit, was completely unruffled by Jaime’s insinuation. He smiled, amicable as always. He’d always been the easiest of the Baratheons to get along with. Perhaps because Stannis was dull beyond words and Robert was the most obnoxious person Jaime had ever had the misfortune of associating with. “This is Lady Brienne, from the Isle of Tarth.”

The Sapphire Isle, Jaime recalled. He’d always wondered if the waters surrounding the island truly did look as breathtaking as they made it sound in stories. He would have asked the wench - Lady Brienne - but he was distracted, suddenly, by the way she was looking at Renly.

Gods, she was in love with him. Jaime stifled his smile in his mug of ale. Poor thing. It would be a cruel surprise when she found out where his true proclivities lay. He was about to say something - a cruel joke or a snide comment, something to break the silence - when there was a crash from the bar.

He couldn’t see what was happening at first. He just saw the sellswords laughing and sloshing their drinks around, their greasy hair reflecting the light from the candles. Then, he saw the dainty girl with the dirty blonde hair. One of the sellswords, a man with a crooked smile and patchy beard, was holding onto her arm. He had his fingers wrapped around her wrist as his other hand traced the neckline of her dress.

“Come ‘ere then darlin’,” he crooned. “Give us a little peek.”

The girl shook her head, sending her hair flying. She was catatonic with fright, her eyes wide and round. Jaime felt his hackles rising. He reached for the dagger at his belt. There were three of them, it would be hard to fight them with a dagger. Maybe if he got a sword from somewhere?

Jaime was so consumed in his thoughts, that he hadn’t realised that Brienne had stood up from their table and was pushing her way through the crowd. It only really registered when her tall frame came into his line of view. She stood in front of the men, her back straight as an arrow, her tall form looming over the them, not looking the least bit afraid. Her hand was on the hilt of a sword tied to a sheath at her belt.

“What the hell does she think she’s doing?” Jaime demanded, getting to his feet.

Renly grabbed his wrist, stopping him. He, surprisingly, didn’t look worried. “Don’t worry about Brienne. She can handle it.”

“There are _three_ men there. And she’s a woman.”

This was not going to end well. Jaime untangled himself from Renly’s grip and tried to push his way to the front of the room, but the crowds had gotten thicker, all of the men pushing each other for a chance to see the fight that was unfolding. 

Brienne said something, though Jaime couldn’t make out the words. In response, he heard the sellsword laugh, a booming growl that echoed in the room. Jaime scrambled onto a nearby table, knocking over a goblet as he did so. A man shouted at him as the wine dribbled onto his boots, but Jaime didn’t bother to respond. He jumped onto other table, and caught sight of the sellsword clutching the dainty woman’s dress tighter. The sellsword grinned, showing off a set of crooked teeth, and then, looking straight at Brienne, he pulled at the girl’s dress. It ripped with a sharp tearing sound. The girl screamed and clasped her hands over her chest.

Instantly, Brienne pulled out her sword in a quick, fluid motion and swung it. It slashed the man in the side of his gut, and before he could even react, she brought her fist up, knocking it straight into his nose. Blood spurted out as the man screeched and let go of the girl, who ran past the bar, into the kitchen.

The sellsword crumpled to his feet, blood dripping from his side and his nose.

“Stupid whore,” the man spat.

She didn’t bother to respond. His companions were already crowding in on Brienne, surrounding her with their swords drawn. One of them swung his sword at her, but she ducked to the ground, kicking his feet so he toppled to the floor. His companion tripped over him and Brienne swung her sword at his hand, making him drop his own sword to the floor. She reached for it, but the third man attacked, and she was forced to retreat.

She was in trousers, luckily enough, with a dirty white tunic and a brown belt. Jaime spotted a gap in the crowd. Scrambling down from the table he slipped through the gap and snatched a fallen sword off the floor.

Two of the men had gotten up and were closing in on Brienne. The third one - the one who ripped the girl’s dress - had been effectively incapacitated. He stayed on the ground, bleeding, baring his teeth at Jaime. It must have been his sword Jaime had grabbed.

Good. Now to deal with the other two.

“Hey!” Jaime called out.

They turned in his direction. Jaime swung his sword, knocking one of them to the ground as Brienne easily took down the other one. Jaime stepped on the hand of the man he’d knocked down, keeping him from reaching his sword. Brienne stepped on the other man’s chest and put her sword to his throat. He wheezed, begging for surrender.

She was panting, sweat making strands of her thin hair stick to her forehead. “Get out,” she said, a hiss through clenched teeth. “You’re getting blood on the floor.”

The man spat and swore, but as soon as she stepped off him, he got to his feet. Jaime let go of the other one who darted away. They helped their third friend off the floor and hobbled to the door.

“Crazy bitch,” one of them muttered.

“She’s just jealous you didn’t want to fuck _her,_ ” the other one said as the door swung shut.

If Brienne heard, she made no indication of it. She picked up a rag from the bar and cleaned her sword, slowly, methodically.

It was only when she glanced up at him that Jaime realised he was staring.

“I didn’t need your help,” she muttered, turning away from him.

Jaime felt a little disoriented, like he no longer knew where he was. She’d taken out _three_ of them. Sellswords! He’d never seen a woman fight like that. Hell… he’d barely seen men who could fight like that.

She nodded to the sword he was holding, and he looked down at it, blankly.

“You should probably give his sword back to him.”

He looked back up at her. “You could have killed them,” he blurted out.

It was a statement borne out of shock and awe, but she pressed her lips together, her eyes alight with a fire that scorched him.

“No one mourns the wicked,” she said, darkly.

He’d wanted to say more to her, but before he could gather his thoughts, bring the words to his lips, she’d turned her attention to the innkeeper.

“How is she?” she asked him. She sounded genuinely concerned.

“She’s still sobbing, but she’s grateful you stepped in,” the man said. “I’m grateful too.”

“I was not about to let them touch her,” she said, her voice fierce.

Jaime walked away before the man could thank him. He didn’t want the man’s thanks. It should go only to the wench. She had done most of the work. 

It was time for him to pick up Tyrion anyway.

Jaime considered returning the sword to the sellsword he’d taken it from, and then decided against it. He leaned it against a wall, said goodbye to Renly, chugged the last of his ale, and left the bar.

But not before throwing Brienne of Tarth one final look.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the lovely comments! I figured that since most of the fic has been written already, I'd upload the next chapter fairly quickly. Enjoy!

**TWO.**  

Jaime woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. He rolled over in bed, stifling his groans. He’d woken to a thumping at his door, the servant come to rouse him, no doubt. He stumbled out of bed, cringing as his feet hit the cold stone floor.

“Come in!”

The servant came in bowing profusely and helped him wash and dress, then led him down the stairs to the breakfast table. Jaime ate mechanically, washing down the ham and cheese and bread with strong, bitter tea. Tyrion, thankfully, was hungover and didn’t bother to try making conversation.

Unfortunately, they were only half-way through their meal when Edmure decided to join them. He was far too energetic for someone who had recently woken. Jaime had to keep from flinching as Edmure’s loud voice boomed in his ears, making his headache thump in his skull.

“But that’s all after lunch, of course. After breakfast, Lysa was hoping you might take her for a walk around the gardens?”

“Oh… ah, I’d love to,” Jaime said, affecting politeness.

In truth, he couldn’t think of anything he rather do less. Tyrion smirked into his food but Edmure didn’t catch it as he continued babbling on about the plans for their stay. Jaime tried to pay attention, but his thoughts wandered past the mêlées and the castle tours, to the night before. Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to the tall woman with her large, befuddling eyes. He still couldn’t believe she’d single-handedly held back three sellswords in a packed tavern. That was a feat very few knights themselves could do. Yet she’d done it, looking utterly unafraid. Who had taught her to fight like that? And how did Renly know her?

“What else did you do last night?” Tyrion asked, as Edmure excused himself to go speak to some other guests. “Apart from watch a giant woman beat up three sellswords?”

“Oh did I mention? She was with Renly Baratheon.”

“Renly?” Tyrion frowned, downing the rest of his tea. “What was he doing there?”

“He was on his way to see Cersei.”

Even just saying her name made his throat grow tight. He affected a nonchalant air as he said the words, but it was a wasted attempt. Tyrion could see right through him.

Cersei had told Jaime once that he had the heart of a woman, that he cared too much about people and what they thought of him. She’d said it was going to kill him someday. She loved to remind him that he was weak-willed and pathetic, like that. She’d always taken a particular pride in the fact that she could see a person dying on the streets and not feel an ounce of guilt as she walked past.

“And you didn’t attempt to hitch a ride with him?” Tyrion asked. He must have known Jaime was thinking about Cersei. _Idiot,_ he chastised himself.

Jaime pasted on a look of carelessness. “And leave you alone? Here? In the cruel place full of wine and whores and the distinct lack of our father? I would never.”

Tyrion grinned. “Today I’m holing myself up in the library. Do come find me if Lady Lysa’s company becomes tiresome.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Jaime said.

They finished their breakfast and Jaime dragged himself to Lysa’s chambers. She was dressed in a startlingly bright yellow dress with pearls sewn into the fabric. He didn’t think it was the most practical dress to be walking around in, but he made no comment except to tell her that she looked lovely. It wasn’t a complete lie, he supposed. She looked alright.

Together, they walked down to the gardens and then along the cobblestoned paths, passing bushes of bright flowers and hedges designed to look like horses rearing their heads. She talked throughout, telling him about her maids and how incompetent they were. It was dreadfully dull. Jaime was only half-listening as she listed the indecencies her chamber maid had committed that very morning. Instead he observed the castle, the gardens that smelled of wet mud, the turrets with their flying banners. 

Then, there was another sound. A clank. Then another. Jaime’s ears pricked up. He knew that sound anywhere.

It was the sound of metal ringing through the air.

“Are those your knights?” Jaime asked, turning to Lysa. She must have heard the sudden interest in his voice because her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Yes. Our master-at-arms trains them for a few hours each morning.”

“Do you think we might watch them for a while?”

Lysa looked reluctant, but she consented. She led Jaime through the castle, out towards a wide courtyard. There, men in full armour were fighting, swords clanging against each other. Jaime felt a thrill rush through him as a tall man - taller than him - brought his sword down to land heavily on another man’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Another man rushed towards the tall man, and they battled for a while, swords biting into each other, but the tall man bested him soon enough.

The master-at-arms shouted instructions at all the knights as they sparred. Most of them were average at best, but the tall man fought beautifully, sword slicing through the air with the grace of a tried-and-true knight.

He almost fought like…

A bell sounded somewhere, and the master-at-arms called the end of the training session. Slowly, the knights pulled off their helmets, revealing their slick hair and reddened cheeks. The tall knight pulled off his helmet revealing white-blonde hair and pale skin.

“Well done Brienne,” the master-of-arms said, passing her. “It’s truly an honor to watch you knock these boys into the dirt like the pansy little pricks they are.”

She gave him a slight nod of thanks, the faintest of smiles on her face, and then her eyes caught Jaime’s. They widened slightly. Jaime felt his own jaw go slack.

Why was she here? Jaime watched as she picked up her helmet and started hurriedly making her way to the castle.

“Is that a woman?” Jaime asked Lysa.

“She’s Catelyn’s sworn sword,” Lysa said, clearly unimpressed. “I don’t know why Cat wanted a woman to protect her, but she’s always been like that. Catelyn, I mean. She wants to be _different._ ”

“Catelyn has a sworn sword?” Jaime asked, confused. “Why is that?”

“Cat visited Tarth a few years ago with our father and met Brienne. I don’t know what happened there to make them such _good friends_ , but Brienne wanted to serve and Catelyn took a shine to her, so here she is… _serving_ Catelyn. In an unofficial capacity, of course. She trains with our men. I presume they’re a lot better than the knights in Tarth.”

“She fought exceedingly well. I should like to congratulate her.”

Lysa let out another sigh but waved a hand and called out. “Brienne! Come here a moment.”

Brienne stopped her in tracks, and even from a distance, reluctance was clear on her face. Dragging her feet and clinging onto her helmet and sword, she made her way over to where Jaime and Lysa stood watching.

“Brienne, this is Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock,” Lysa said, primly. “He wishes to congratulate you on your fighting today.”

Brienne turned her large blue eyes on Jaime. “Thank you, Ser Jaime,” she said, stiffly, ducking her head slightly.

“I haven’t congratulated you yet, my lady,” Jaime said.

Brienne bristled, her eyes still turned away from Jaime. “I’m not a lady.”

“A man then? I’ll admit, that does make a lot more sense.”

Brienne eyes flicked upwards, irritation flashing in them. Jaime had to swallow down a laugh.

“How did you come into Lady Catelyn’s service, Lady… Liane, was it?”

Brienne eyes narrowed, just a fraction. “Brienne. I wished to train with the knights of Riverrun and Lady Catelyn gave me the opportun-”

“You wanted to train with knights? How _fascinating._ ”

Lysa, growing bored of the conversation, wandered off to speak to one of the other knights, and Jaime finally allowed his grin to show.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, wench. I thought you were travelling with Lord Renly.”

Brienne straightened up. When she spoke, her voice was flat. “My name is Brienne, not wench. And Lord Renly and I have known each other since our childhood. He was passing through Riverrun and wanted to meet with me.”

“How romantic.” He couldn’t keep the mocking edge out of his voice. Brienne’s jaw clenched.

“He’s a good man,” she said, icily.

“And a good lay. Or so I’ve heard from the boys in King’s Landing.” Brienne’s mouth twitched briefly, but Jaime barrelled on. “Definitely good at talking nonsense. But ultimately the kind of man who’s best left to his cocks and his wine.”

Brienne’s lips were white when she spoke next. “I’ve heard many stories about you, Kingslayer.”

The nickname was like poison on her lips, and it shot through him like an arrow in the heart. Jaime had to keep from flinching. When he spoke, however, he kept his voice even. “Do share. No one seems to tell you stories about yourself.”

“You killed your own king and immediately got pardoned for it. Seems the Golden Lion can get away with anything.” Her eyes travelled down to his shoes and then returned to his face. “I was also told you were one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom.” Her voice was winter now - cold and unyielding. “After what I witnessed last night, I have to say… I’m disappointed.”

She turned on her heel and walked away then, leaving Jaime staring at her back, where the sigil of House Tarth was engraved into her armour.

For some reason, he felt disappointed with himself too.

***

“Is he not the most handsome man you have ever seen?” Lysa sighed, staring out of the window. “A Golden Lion indeed.”

Catelyn shrugged. Her full attention was on the sewing in her lap. Brienne was seated in a chair in between them, a lukewarm cup of tea in her hands. Catelyn insisted they have such sessions once a week to discuss affairs of the castle, but Brienne suspected it was just an excuse for them to gather together and exchange gossip. She didn’t mind. She quite enjoyed spending time with Lady Catelyn.

Lady Lysa… not so much.

“Oh pssh. It’s like you’ve gone blind since you got betrothed to our dear Lord Eddard. Brienne! Tell me… you find him handsome, don’t you?”

She did, in fact, think him handsome - how could she not? - but she was loathe to admit it. Particularly since he had proven himself to be a spectacular ass.

“He’s alright, my lady,” Brienne said.

“You two are hopeless,” Lysa said, scowling at the window. “But Brienne is excused since she clearly prefers the company of women.”

“I don’t…” Brienne began, but Catelyn cut her off.

“I’ve heard some ugly rumours about him.” Cat’s fingers were still flying across her embroidery work. “Very ugly rumours.”

“I have no interest in rumours,” Lysa announced.

“He did murder his own king,” Brienne pointed out, but Lysa waved her words away.

“I never did like Aerys. Ugly old fool. And did you know Jaime killed him when he was only in his sixteenth year? Terribly brave for one so young, don’t you think?”

“It was hardly difficult to fight with his back, my lady,” Brienne said and Catelyn snorted.

Lysa rolled her eyes and slumped backwards onto the window sill. “Regardless… he doesn’t seem to like me.” She sounded petulant, like a small child.

“If you ask me, his judgement is severely impaired,” Brienne offered. After all, he’d insulted Renly. Only a stupid man could not see that Renly would be a fair and just king. Much more fair and just than his brother, she was sure.

She pushed from her mind the memory of the night before, when Lysa’s Golden Lion had fought beside her, and the way he had looked at her after she’d thrown the sellswords out of the tavern. Truth be told, she had been surprised that he had come to her aid. Though, it was in the knight’s code to protect the innocent. He was merely doing his duty, nothing more. The man was a Kingslayer, an oathbreaker. He was not a man of honour, and no amount of bar fights would ever convince her otherwise.

“Well, it’s vital that his judgement of me changes,” Lysa said. She whipped around towards Brienne, startling her so much she almost dropped her tea on the bearskin rug. “You! You should speak with him.”

“My lady?”

“Find out his… likes and dislikes… and then come report to me.”

“Lys, this is absurd,” Catelyn said, shaking her head. “Brienne has far more important…”

“ _Brienne_ isn’t exactly doing anything. You have guards in every square inch of his bloody castle. You’re not going to die without her. And perhaps this way, she could actually be useful for once.”

“Lysa, you are being a right cu-”

“It’s fine, Lady Catelyn. I’m happy to help,” Brienne said quickly, though the lump that was growing in her throat made her voice come out croaky.

Catelyn threw a concerned look in her direction. “You don’t have to do this Brienne.”

“I’m happy to,” Brienne repeated, getting to her feet. She could feel the hot tears filling her eyes now and she needed to leave the room before they fell down her cheeks. She thanked them quickly and then left, heading straight to her chambers.

Gods, she hated to cry in public.

 _Useless_. That’s what ladies who didn’t want to get married to a rich lord and have babies were _._ She’d heard it all her life from men who sneered at her and mocked her behind her back. She had been an ugly child and she was an even uglier adult. No one genuinely thought she would get married. Not to someone worthwhile anyway. And Brienne wasn’t going to settle for less.

Marriage had never been a priority for her, regardless. Fighting had been her refuge in her youth, a break from the cruel mocking words of everyone around her, but it had come to consume her. She loved it with every fibre of her being. If he father hadn’t encouraged her to pick up the sword, she didn’t know what she would have done.

It came back then, in a rush that knocked the breath out of her. Her longing for Tarth. She missed her father, missed the blue of the water, missed the castle where everyone knew her name. She’d come to Riverrun as Catelyn’s sworn sword to learn to fight better, but it wasn’t her dream to be here, being _useless._ She’d wanted to find a good lord or lady she could follow, yes… but her dream, her _true_ dream, was to become a knight. A real knight.

It was absurd. She knew how absurd it was. Women couldn’t be knights. So she was content being a sworn sword. It was the best she could get.

Unfortunately, this particular job now required her to spend more time with the Kingslayer.

She was really not looking forward to that.

***

Brienne didn’t see Jaime Lannister again till the next day. She was in the library searching for a book when she saw him on the writing desk by the window. He was scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment, ink staining his fingers.

For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave the library. But then her promise to Lysa came flooding back to her. She had a job to do and gods-be-damned if she wouldn’t do it well. She forced her legs to move, to walk over to him. She stopped before him, but he didn’t look up. He continued scribbling on his parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Ser Jaime,” she said, her voice stiff.

He looked up and despite herself, Brienne’s heart hiccuped in her chest. The sunlight from the window was highlighting his face in a way that made him look almost otherworldly. His hair looked like spun gold, his neck long and prominent in his loose fitting tunic. She could see the sharp line of his jaw, a thin long scar below one of his ears.

It was infuriating how good looking he was.

He twirled the quill in his long fingers.

“Lady Brienne,” he said, cheerfully. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

His nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken before, but his eyes were soft around the edges. Brienne averted her gaze.

“Are you writing a letter?”

“I am.”

“To your father?”

“To my sister.” He paused a moment, and Brienne turned back to him just in time to see a strange expression flicker across his face. It was gone a mere moment later, his cheerful nonchalance clicking back in place. “I wanted to let her know how famously you and I were getting along.”

Brienne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She let out a sharp breath then met his eyes again. They were a muted green, the colour of the swamplands. “I wanted to thank you, for the other day.” Jaime looked confused, so she continued. “For not telling Lady Catelyn about the fight in the tavern.”

“She would get upset about you defending an innocent girl from sellswords?”

“I’m an honoured guest here at Riverrun. It would not be taken kindly to know I was getting into fights in seedy taverns.”

“Truly my lady…”

“I’m not a lady,” she said, sharper than she intended.

Jaime was unaffected by her tone. He leaned backwards, training his eyes on her in a way that made her feel strangely exposed. It felt like he was analysing her, and she took a step back, defensively.

“You are Selwyn Tarth’s daughter, are you not?” Hesitantly, she nodded. “Then that makes you a lady.”

“I’m only a lady by blood,” she said.

“You’re very stubborn,” Jaime said, but he didn’t sound disapproving.“Tell me… If you were so afraid of making the Tullys look bad, then why do it?”

Her blood began to boil.

“I am not the kind of person that stands idly by when innocents are in danger,” she said, through clenched teeth. “I may not be a knight, but I follow the code, and I fight with honour.”

His eyes wandered over her face. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew she had overplayed her hand. Her dig at him had not been veiled very effectively, and insulting an honoured guest was not in her best interest. But there was something about him that was so infuriating, she could barely stand it.

The pause that followed was long and thick. She wanted nothing more than to break it, but it was his turn to speak. His move. She kept her eyes fixed on his face, despite the overwhelming need she felt to turn away.

“Have I done something to upset you?” he asked, finally.

“You insulted me from moment we met,” she said.

“No. You’re used to being insulted. It’s more than that.” He brushed the quill against his chin. “It’s me, isn’t it? You think me an oathbreaker. You despise me.”

She turned away then, unable to say anymore.

“Well, regardless,” he continued. “I would not have told Lady Catelyn about you. Not in a manner to get you in trouble anyway. I thought what you did was a commendable feat. It was very honourable.”

“Don’t mock me,” Brienne snapped.

“I’m not mocking you. In all honesty, I only wish I had been able to help you sooner.”

Brienne blinked at him. This was… definitely not what she had expected him to say. She’d never expected the Kingslayer to care about honour. Especially when her own fair and just Renly had sat by waiting for her to handle the situation herself.

She didn’t know how to respond, so instead she blurted out, “What are you writing to your sister?”

Jaime took a moment to register the quick change of topic. Then he shrugged, turning back to his letter. “Telling her about Riverrun. And about Lady Lysa.”

Brienne had heard rumours of Jaime and his sister, of the Lannister twins and what they did in the privacy of their bedrooms. She was an only child herself, but the thought still made her shudder. She wondered what Lord Tyrion thought of the matter.

She was still mulling over this when Jaime turned back to her, cocking his head to the side. “Will you be taking part in the tourney tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Well then, I look forward to sparring with you.”

“I hope you look forward to losing,” she said.

“Don’t judge my fighting style based on the other night. You barely saw anything.”

She shrugged. “I saw enough.”

“There are only three people in the kingdom who can beat me - you aren’t one of them.”

“All my life men like you have sneered at me,” she said. “And all my life I’ve been knocking men like you into the dust.”

The corner of his lips twitched. “I guess we’ll see.”

“I guess we will.”

***

Brienne didn’t go up against Jaime until the second last round of the tournament. She’d watched Jaime during his matches - watched the way he swung the sword with an ease that only came from years of practice. It was like a dance, in a sense. The way his feet hit the ground, the fluid slice of the sword through the air, the parry, the block. She watched as he knocked over man after man, pulling off his helmet after each round to bow at the crowd, his golden hair sticking to his forehead and sweat dripping down the curve of his neck. 

She had to admit it, if only to herself - he was a phenomenal fighter.

The worst part was that he _knew_ how good he was.

Her own matches went by fast enough. She’d fought most of these men before. She knew she could take them. In fact, she secretly thrilled at the humiliation on their faces when she knocked them into the dirt and held her sword to their necks.

No longer could men mock her to her face and get away with it.

She hadn’t been nervous to fight the knights of the Riverlands, but she was nervous to fight the Kingslayer.After all, with him, she had something extra to prove.

Then the moment arrived. He stood before her, helmet on, sword at the ready and did the customary bow. She responded in kind.

The bell rang, a deep, brain-numbing sound. This was it.

She swung first. She’d always been more of an aggressive fighter than a defensive one. Most men didn’t expect her to make the first move, and they didn’t expect her to move so fast. But Jaime Lannister had been watching her fight, the way she’d been watching him. He blocked her first swing easily, putting all his strength into it so that she stumbled backwards. She had barely caught her balance when he swiped at her.

She barely blocked it. The metal rang loudly in her ears as the swords clashed. Brienne used her elbow to push him away and then swung lower, at his legs. Again, he blocked her swing. He managed to match her - again and again and again, block after block. She swung at his helmet and he ducked and then slammed his sword into the back of her knees.

She toppled to the ground but managed to roll away as his sword hit the dirt. She staggered to her feet, sword hilt below her chin. She was audibly panting now. He was better than she’d expected him to be.

With a flourish he twirled his sword - a gratuitous movement, completely unnecessary - and then held it before himself.

The crowd was growing louder. Their cheering was a roar in Brienne’s ears. He was on the defensive again, and there was a smugness in his stance. He knew he could beat her.

Brienne swallowed hard. Every swordsman had a tell, and he’d identified hers. Even through her helmet he’d seen her eyes crinkle in a grimace before she lunged. He was waiting now. He was waiting for her to lunge at him so he could take a step back and slam the sword into her back. That would knock her to her knees so he could put his sword at her throat.

She was not going to give him the satisfaction. Brienne stilled her expression. She would not grimace.

They circled each other like panthers, slow, languid steps. She could see him growing weary of the waiting. He was ready to be done with it all.

Brienne kept her expression still… and lunged.

She hit him in the arm, and the impact knocked his sword right out of his hand. It clattered to the ground, bringing up dust.

He stared down at it, disbelieving.

For a moment, there was a hush. Not a sound but Brienne’s heavy breathing and the Tully flags flapping in the wind.

And then, the crowd began to cheer.

***

The thrill of the fight stayed in Brienne’s bones for the rest of the evening. She was generally a reserved woman, preferring to stay by Cat’s side whenever possible, but today there was a spring in her step, a flush on her cheeks. She could still hear the cheers of the audience as she pulled off her helmet, the way they screamed and waved their flags and stomped their feet.

Best of all, she remembered with startling clarity, the absolutely dumb-struck look on Jaime Lannister’s face.

Her heart was singing. This was what made her feel truly alive. To pick up a sword, to fight. To calculate the next moves of men and beat them to the punch. Nothing else was truly quite like a good fight.

The day ended with a feast in honour of their guests. The Tullys and the two Lannister men sat at the main table on the raised platform. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, had started drinking from the moment he reached the great hall, and had continued to do so until his cheeks were tinged bright pink. Jaime sat beside him, unsmiling. A few times when Brienne glanced towards the front of the room, she caught him looking at her, a strange, astute look in his eyes.

Each time, she turned hurriedly away.

She was seated at a table with a few of the other knights, but they were not interested in talking to her. Possibly being beaten by a woman had hurt their fragile egos and so they had turned away from her, purposefully excluding her from their conversation. Brienne tried not to care. She didn’t, in a sense. She wasn’t sorry, but she felt the sting of it all anyway.

She was almost finished with her meal and thinking about her bed when she heard the clank of a goblet on the table. She looked up. Standing on the bench across from her, was the grinning face of Tyrion Lannister.

Trailing behind him - dragging his feet, no doubt - was Jaime.

“My lady,” the Imp said. “I was astounded by your skills in the tourney today.”

She was trying not to stare at him, and in doing so she was sure she was giving him the same look most people gave her when they saw her for the first time. The kind of look where it was apparent someone wanted to ogle her but was trying to reign it back in.

“Thank you my lord. That is very kind.”

Tyrion waved a hand, brushing her words away. He was clearly very drunk. He stumbled off the bench and then sat down on it, pulling the pitcher of wine on the table towards himself.

“Tyrion, please. And I’m not being kind. It’s the truth.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Jaime asked. His tone, however, was playful, his crisp accent cutting through the chatter of the room. He sat down besides Tyrion.

“There’s no such thing as enough wine,” Tyrion said. He was watching Brienne now, eyes taking in the lines of her face. She felt exposed. Uncomfortably so. “Brienne of Tarth,” Tyrion said, as if testing her name on his tongue. “You are a very fascinating woman.”

“I wouldn’t say so,” she said. She averted her eyes from Jaime, who was watching her still, his head cocked slightly to the side.

“Would you like to play a game?” Tyrion asked, brightly. “To get to know each other?”

“Oh… I couldn’t…,” Brienne began.

Before she could say anymore, however, Jaime had grabbed her goblet and was filling it.

“Nonsense,” he said. “This is the time to celebrate.”

Tyrion nodded and then hiccuped. “The game is simple. I guess a fact about you, and if I’m right, you drink. If I’m wrong, then I drink. Yes?”

The game sounded like her worst nightmare. She had never been one to open herself up to strangers, to speak about her girlhood in Tarth and her difficult years since.

Tyrion must have seen the look on her face, because he conceded. “Alright then… you can go first.”

Brienne swallowed, staring down at the table. “I’ll play only if Ser Jaime does as well.”

Jaime’s eyebrows rose. Tyrion looked at Jaime, frowning. “Were you not going to play?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

“Come now, Jaime. You must.”

Jaime’s eyes lifted to meet hers. Brienne held them there this time. Lady Lysa had given her a job to do, after all.

“Fair enough,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. He grabbed another goblet and poured wine for himself. Then, he lifted it up. “May you not be as successful at reading us as you were in besting me with a sword.”

Tyrion laughed and followed Jaime in taking a large sip from his own goblet. Brienne took a small sip, the wine sour against her tongue.

“Alright then, my lady,” Tyrion said. “Whenever you are ready.”

Brienne observed Jaime as he put down his glass and leaned back in his chair.

“No cheating,” he said. “You’ve said you’ve heard stories about me. You can’t rely on those.”

She narrowed her eyes. What could she guess about him? All that swirled in her mind were the stories of his sister, of him betraying his own king, of the reputation his family had.

She remembered then, the way he’d pulled his coat tighter around him in the tavern where they’d first been introduced.

“You hate the cold,” she guessed.

Jaime took a sip of his drink. Besides him, Tyrion clapped joyfully.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Now let’s get a little more scandalous, huh?”

Brienne didn’t want to get more scandalous. She wanted to go to bed.

Tyrion nodded at her. “You have to ask him another question. I don’t think I can participate in this round.”

“You’d better not,” Jaime said. “You know far too much about me.”

Brienne thought, but it was hard to assume things past what she already knew about him. She knew he was a lord, and a knight, and she knew what that meant about him; that he was taught to use a sword from his childhood, that he was given special lessons that had developed his vocabulary, that he likely squired for a famous knight who had complimented his style and given him advice no one would ever give Brienne.

Her best course of action would be to do what Lady Lysa had told her. She rummaged through her mind for things that Lysa would want to know about him, the kind of things she could possibly later use to seduce him.

“You prefer women who pay special attention to their appearance… to their style of dressing and their hair,” Brienne guessed.

Brienne had always admired Lysa’s style of dressing and the attention she put into her appearance. Brienne had never much cared about that - she couldn’t do much to herself that would in anyway improve what she looked like, so she didn’t bother - but Lysa always managed to highlight the features that suited her best. She managed to make her cheekbones stand out or find outfits that complemented her auburn hair. It was a skill in itself, to make one’s best qualities stand out.

Jaime frowned across the table, but he did not pick up his goblet. “Not at all. I hardly care about any of that.”

“You can’t lie,” she insisted.

“I’ve never heard him say anything about a woman’s style of dress,” Tyrion admitted.

Now it was Brienne’s turn to be surprised. She’d always assumed it was a given for any man to care how a woman presented herself. It was why so many men she met mocked her before she even had a chance to speak. Brienne of Tarth, the woman who dressed and behaved like a man.

“Drink, my lady,” Tyrion said. He was swaying in place, now. Brienne guessed he’d been drinking even though the question had not been asked of him.

“Does that mean it’s my turn, then?” Jaime asked, turning to his brother.

Tyrion nodded. Jaime turned his attention sharply to her, and she felt dread in the pit of her stomach, hot and thick. His green eyes never strayed from her face.

“You and Renly have known each other since your childhood.”

“I told you that! You can’t use that!”

He only grinned in response, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Alright then.” He stroked his jaw, where a faint layer of stubble ran up to his cheeks. “You are an only child.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Maybe he knew more about Tarth that he'd let on. He must have known her siblings had died when they were very young, leaving her as her father's only living heir. But she had no way of proving that. She brought the cup up to her lips.

Tyrion let out a loud cheer. “Yes! My turn!”

He rubbed his own stubbled chin, putting on a look of exaggerated concentration. “You are unaccustomed to drinking much.”

She felt her face flushing as she took another sip. Jaime was outright grinning now, that sort of wicked smile that meant trouble was brewing.

“You,” Jaime said, “despise growing your hair long.”

Brienne took another sip. This game was getting ridiculous.

Tyrion stuck out his lower lip as he thought.“You think King Robert Baratheon is so very handsome.”

Brienne felt a rush of triumph. “Not at all.”

Together, the brothers made an exaggerated gasping noise. She rolled her eyes.

“His eyes are too close together,” Tyrion said, taking a large gulp of wine.

“I don’t much care for his beard,” Brienne admitted. “It’s quite bushy.”

“Beards can be shaved off,” Jaime said, pointing at her with his goblet.

“I know they can,” Brienne said, scowling. “I just don’t find him handsome.”

“I’ve always wanted to grow out my beard,” Jaime said, rubbing his cheeks.

“What’s stopping you?” Tyrion asked.

“Beards can be grown,” Brienne said dryly, which caused Tyrion to snort into his wine glass.

“Well, yes but…” Jaime hesitated. “Well… Cersei always said I looked better clean shaven.”

A short, awkward silence wafted around them for a moment, until Brienne cleared her throat.

“I suppose it’s my turn now,” she said, primly. Jaime gave her another cheeky grin and she raised her eyebrows, challengingly. A part of her - a part she was loathe to acknowledge - was actually… starting to enjoy herself.

She watched Tyrion as he tapped his fingers against his own goblet. “Lord Tyrion, you prefer wine to ale.”

“That’s like saying he cannot reach high shelves,” Jaime said. “I should have thought it was obvious.”

Tyrion shoved him as he put his glass to his lips, but then he paused, turning the goblet over. The cup was empty.

“Ah fuck,” Tyrion said. “Do Jaime again.”

Jaime smiled as she turned back to him, a boyish, lopsided smile. Looking at him felt akin to staring right into the blazing face of the sun.

She pressed her thumb to her lips. “You frequent the brothels near Casterly Rock.”

“Wrong again,” he said. “You’re quite bad at guessing things about me, aren’t you? You are thinking of the other brother.”

“Jaime never visits the brothels,” Tyrion said. “He’s a bit boring that way.”

Jaime answered airily. “Quite the opposite. I don’t visit the brothels because I have far more interesting things to do with my time.”

Brienne tried to reign in her expression, but she couldn’t help but stare at him, shocked. He was an unmarried man, a rich lord. It was truly surprising that he didn’t visit the brothels.

“It’s Lady Brienne’s turn again,” Tyrion said.

“I’ll take this one,” Jaime said, turning to her.

Tyrion sat back against his chair. “Do a good one. This game has been so very tame so far.”

“I’ve got a very good one,” he said. There was a look in his eyes now, something shining and eager and wicked. Something sizzled in Brienne, sharp and sudden. Jaime leaned forward so that the candles on the table made his eyelashes glow gold. “You are in love with Renly Baratheon.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Tyrion let out a loud snort, laughing bubbling up and out of him. “By the Gods. No one is _that_ blind.”

“I’ve always said, if the Iron Throne were made of cocks, no one would able to get him off it,” Jaime mused.

Tyrion burst out laughing even harder, doubling over.

Brienne wiped her lips with her napkin, pushed her chair back and stood. The screech of the chair against the floor had been loud, but it was drowned out in the noise of the room.

The two men looked up at her, their grins melting off their faces, only to be replaced with expressions of shock and concern. She didn’t bother to make excuses. She turned on her heel and stomped away, finally back to her bed.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE.**

In her bedroom, Brienne pulled off her clothes almost violently. What did she think was going to happen participating in a silly game like that? Served her right for almost enjoying it. Now her humiliating one sided love for a man who preferred the company of men was out there for everyone to see. Even Jaime Lannister had been able to tell. Seven hells! The humiliation that pierced her was acute, but familiar.

She was in her smallclothes, washing her face, when there was a thudding at the door. She waited a moment, but it continued, insistent and annoying. She had no reason to expect guests at this time, and for a brief, terror-stricken moment, she worried that it was a messenger with news from Tarth. Her father… was her father alright? With panic biting at her heels she whipped on her dressing gown and flung open the door.

He panic melted into irritation when the smiling face of Jaime Lannister stared back at her.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

All her pretence at decency for the sake of the Tullys had gone. She crossed her arms across her chest, glaring at him. In response, he held up a pitcher of wine.

If he genuinely assumed _wine_ would make things better, he was more of a fool than she’d thought.

Brienne clenched her teeth. “Go away or I’ll put a sword through your gut.”

“Only if you beat me in a fight.”

“We’ve already established that I can.”

“You only won because I got cocky,” he said, pushing past her into the room.

“I haven’t invited you in.”

Jaime ignored her, putting down the pitcher of wine and then yanking off his coat.

“This is extremely inappropriate,” Brienne continued. "I'm in my dressing gown." 

Jaime waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested.”

Brienne ground her teeth and slammed the door shut behind herself. “Haven’t you humiliated me enough for one night?” she asked. “Or will you not be satisfied until I start simpering and sobbing?”

“I can’t imagine you simpering.”

“And that bothers you?”

Men, she’d noticed, could not stand that she was not a proper lady. They especially hated the idea that she didn’t _need_ them. They hated it so much they could barely look her in the face.

But Jaime Lannister turned around and looked her square in the eyes.

“No,” he said. “I quite like it.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Something in his expression had… changed. It wasn’t the face of the smirking man she’d been bumping into these last few days. She realised, all at once, that the face of the smirking man was not a face at all. It was a mask.

And it was cracking.

“I wanted to apologise,” he said, and his voice was soft and raspy. “It was dishonourable of me to reveal your affections for Renly.”

There was earnestness in his eyes, all of a sudden. She could tell it was not a normal expression for him - it didn’t fit in with the lines on his face.

"Don't mock me," she bit out. "And don't mock Renly either." 

Jaime's eyes didn't stray from her face. "Who am I to judge someone for who they love?" he asked. "I'm not here to judge. I'm here for your forgiveness."   

“Your crimes are past forgiveness, Kingslayer,” she spat.

Blearily, he planted himself down on her bed. “Why do you hate me? Truly… I’d like to know.”

“You said yourself you were dishonourable.”

“And who decides what is dishonourable and what is not? Was Robert Baratheon dishonourable for killing all those men for the sake of his personal vendetta?”

“Of course not. That was-”

Jaime traced the design on her bedspread with the tip of his finger. “But it’s true, isn’t it? He started a war because the woman he loved was kidnapped. Oh yes… it’s all _oh so romantic_ in theory, but what about when you consider the fact that husbands and sons and fathers were murdered in that war? So many women and men lost their loved ones because Robert Baratheon wanted to be _romantic._ ”

Her heart stalled in her chest. She swallowed, but her tongue was dry as rock. “She was kidnapped. What was he meant to do? Leave her there?”

“Alright, so Robert’s personal vendetta is honourable. Does that make the Mad King honourable too, then? For killing people for his personal reasons?”

“No, but…”

“Then why,” he said, slowly, “am I dishonourable for killing him?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and piercing in the room. Brienne shifted. Cold fingers of unease were now creeping up her back, wrapping themselves around her spine.She’d heard of the Mad King’s crimes, of course. She’d heard about how he would burn anyone who displeased him, but… well, she’d always been told that the Kingslayer was a man without honour. Who was she to doubt that? He’d broken a knight’s code, after all.

But then again… who was she to condemn him?

Jaime was gazing off into the distance, past Brienne. Perhaps he was no longer even in this world. He looked like a scarecrow, hollow and empty and barely able to hold himself upright.

“Do you know what it is like to be reviled by so many for an act that saved them all?” Jaime whispered. His words were slurring together, his sentences melding into one garbled line. “He wanted me to burn King’s Landing. He could have done it too. He had wildfire. It was buried underground. Buckets and buckets of it. Green and sickly looking. The whole city would have been ashes if I’d listened to him.”

Brienne shivered. The room was warm, and yet, there was a chill running through her. The silence between them stretched out - long and stifling. Brienne watched him, sitting on her bed, his eyes staring at nothingness. The mask had slipped off completely. Now, he was someone else. Not the Smiling Knight. Someone… different. Someone who was not very happy at all.

“Knights are supposed to protect the innocent,” he mumbled. “And so are kings.”

At some point Brienne had backed into the door of her room. She hadn’t realised she’d done it until the handle poked painfully into her hip. She swallowed. Her heart was thundering in her chest, her thoughts roaring so loudly she could barely hear him when he spoke.

“I kept my oath, and yet… they call me the man without honour.”

“If this is the truth, then why doesn’t anyone know?” she asked, and her voice came out hoarse. 

“You think Ned Stark would have listened to me?” he growled. “The honourable Ned Stark? He saw me covered in Aerys’s blood and that was confession enough for him. He…”

He seemed to catch himself. He stopped, a frown on his face. Slowly, he turned, searching for Brienne in the dull light of the room. “I’ve never told anyone that. Not ever. Not even… not even Cersei.” He looked confused. Dismayed, even.

“Why not?” she asked, and her voice sounded small in the cavernous room. She felt like she was drowning. The waves would not stop and they were dragging her under.

Jaime seemed to mull over this for a moment, his brows furrowing. His handsome features wrinkled and creased as his thoughts flicked across his face. “I think it’s because… I knew she would call me stupid for blemishing my reputation for the lives of men and women I don’t know.” He swallowed, his gaze turned away from her, but his voice was sardonic when he spoke.“Maybe if I was more like Robert… getting other men to fight my war… perhaps then she wouldn’t think me pathetic.”

“How could anyone be stupid or pathetic for saving the lives of innocents?” Brienne asked, and despite the horror and shock she was feeling, there was an indignation in her voice.

Jaime’s eyes met hers again, and a slow smile tugged at his lips. “I knew you would understand,” he said, softly. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am generally the biggest glutton for slow burns but these guys have already decided they're low-key in love with each other, I cannot control them.

**FOUR.**

Jaime began to find that he didn’t actually mind Riverrun all that much.

They had the most magnificent flowers in their gardens, the entertainment was far better than the performers his father usually brought to Casterly Rock, the knights were a lot more fun to practice with, and Catelyn Tully proved to be an intelligent, quick-witted conversationalist, if a little too black-and-white at times.

And then there was that stubborn, ugly wench…

After he’d confessed his secret to Brienne, sitting on her bed in a room that smelled faintly of seawater - though he could not guess why - he’d expected to feel some sort of regret. When he hadn’t, he assumed it was because he was drunk. Alcohol numbed the emotions. It’s why the Lannisters loved it so much. Likely, when he got sober some self-flagellation would be in order.

The next morning, however, he felt nothing of the sort. In fact, it was almost the opposite. There was a peculiar lightness within him. He felt it in his step. There was still an immense weight on his shoulders, but it was a little easier to stand it when there were two people holding it up.

He tried to feel guilty about it, truth be told. After all, he’d spent the evening with a woman who was practically a stranger to him and he’d told her something he’d never told anyone before; not his father, not Tyrion, and not Cersei. The thought made him uneasy, but it was still not enough to muster up any sort of regret. After all, he knew she’d understand. He knew she would take his side. And he knew she was the kind of woman who would never tell another soul if he did not wish her to.

And when he saw her in training the next day, when she turned and looked at him with those electric blue eyes that no longer held any contempt for him, that lightness went straight to his head.

He felt a little dizzy.

Of course, Lysa Tully continued to be an exhausting presence.

Yes, the entire _point_ of the trip had been to get to know _her_ but she seemed more vacuous than Jaime thought possible. He wasn’t one to judge someone based on their intelligence; Cersei has always said he was the idiot of the family. But Lysa was exhausting. For one, she was utterly obsessed with children. Jaime thought children were fine, but after the sixth conversation about how Lysa had always pictured herself having a child with dark hair, Jaime was ready to lie and say he hated children on the hopes that this would encourage her to immediately terminate the possible nuptials.

It wouldn’t have worked, though, and Jaime knew it. He hardly had a choice in the matter of children. As the heir to Casterly Rock his duty was to get married and then immediately get his wife pregnant so she could pop out an heir, or two, or three. No one would care to ask him if he actually wanted them or not. Cersei certainly hadn’t, but Jaime knew she wanted to be a mother more than anything too.

At least she didn’t feel the need to talk about it constantly.

Lysa had even started to get… well, handsy. One evening, during dinner, she’d slipped her hand up his thigh and in between his legs. Jaime had choked on a piece of chicken, and Tyrion had thought he had a bone stuck in his throat, so he’d thumped him on the back so hard that Jaime got tears in his eyes. But Lysa had removed her hand, so he supposed, in a sense, it had worked itself out.

Though not for long. The next day at dinner, her hand had found the buckle of his belt. He was positive that had he not feigned a stomach upset, she would have done something _very_ unladylike at the table.

Jaime knew that sooner or later he’d have to come clean and confess to Lysa that he had no intention of marrying her. He knew his father would throw a fit if he refused, but what was he to do? He couldn’t bear to even imagine a life where he had to wake up besides this woman everyday. Yes, she was beautiful, but frankly he didn’t care all that much about that. They had nothing in common. She was obsessed with gossip, with the drama between her chamber maid and the cook, with how much money Jaime had and how much money _she_ had and how much everything in their castle cost.

On one occasion, she had taken him around their great hall and narrated the price of everything from the cloth of the curtains to the battered old daggers displayed on the walls. Jaime would have pulled his teeth out if it had meant he would be saved from the utter boredom of the evening.

Weeks went by, and the days started to blur into one another. The dinners, the dull nights when Tyrion was in the brothels and Jaime had to drink sour mead in the local tavern, the walks in the garden with Lysa hanging off his arm, the days in the library reading or scribbling letters to his father or Cersei. It all started to get rather mundane. He’d never quite like routines.

The brightest spot of the trip, if he was being completely honest with himself, was getting to spar with Lady Brienne. She truly was a fighter the likes of which he’d rarely seen. He’d started training with the knights every morning, and while the others were also good fighters - Ser Rodryk was almost as fast as him, and Ser Pylen was almost as strong - Jaime looked forward to fighting with Brienne the most. There was something gratifying about teaching her and learning from her, and at the end of every session he was left wrung out in more ways than one. Several times he invited her to come with him to the tavern while Tyrion was enjoying his women of the night, but each time she respectfully declined. There was no explaining the heavy sinking in his chest whenever she did, like stones falling to the bottom of the ocean.

Of course, she was still stubborn and uptight and _honourable_ to the point of aggravation, and they spent most of their time together bickering, but he much preferred to have dinner with her than with Lysa Tully.

In fact, he’d even taking to hiding from Lysa Tully whenever he could. On one such occasion, when he was reading a book in a window nook in an empty corridor leading to the servant’s quarters, Brienne of Tarth found him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyes wide. Her tone was so horrified, one would have thought he was completely undressed and covered in his own filth.

“Hiding,” he said.

She looked up and down the hallway, confused. He was always amazed at how straight-backed she stood, like she was a marble statue of a warrior, or a princess. There was a grace about her, and yet there was something so ungainly in her manner, like she had accepted how unsightly she was and no longer cared to try and rectify it.

When she turned back to him, her expression was bemused. “What exactly are you hiding from?”

He gave her a vague shrug, and she narrowed her eyes. “Are you playing with a child?”

“Oh, Gods no. And please don’t mention children around Lysa. I can’t bear another conversation about how she’s determined to have a son so he can become a famous knight that the bards write ghastly love ballads about.”

She raised a pale eyebrow. “You’re a famous knight, and as far as I’m aware, no one has written any ghastly love ballads about you.”

“Not yet,” he said, and winked.

Absurdly, _delightfully,_ her cheeks grew pink. She scowled, clearly flustered. “You’re hiding from Lady Lysa,” she said, trying and failing to keep her voice flat.

“You’re very astute.”

“Piss off.”

He grinned again, thrilling at the sound of her swearing. He hadn’t realised he could have that effect on her - making her blush - but now that he knew, he was desperate to see it again. A part of him, granted a small part, wanted to see exactly how red-cheeked and blustering he could get her.

He stood and took a step towards her, titling his chin up just a bit to catch her eyes. She stood her ground, watching him warily, as though he truly was a lion, pacing up and down before her.

“You’re her guest,” she said. “This is beyond ungentlemanly.”

“I think you’ll find I can be a perfect gentleman when I want to be.” He gave her a crooked half-smile, and then, on a whim, reached out and caught her hand. She started, but didn’t pull it from his grip, which he took as a good sign. “But unfortunately, with Lady Lysa, I am at my wit’s end. She’s lovely but unimaginably dull. If I were to spend all my time in her company I think I shall go madder than Aerys.”

Her hand was warm and calloused in his. The hand of a fighter, he thought. He brushed a thumb over her knuckles, and her cheeks went even darker. Quickly, she disentangled her hand from his, turning away with a sullen look.

“I was under the impression that you were meant to be marrying her.”

“Not exactly. We were meant to be getting to know each other.”

“And this is how you plan on doing it?” she asked.

“I’ve served my sentence,” he drawled. He gave her a careful once over. “That armour looks very fetching on you.”

He’d expected another blush, maybe some flustered stuttering, but instead her face went white with fury. When she spoke, her voice was ice. “I have to go.”

His blood spiked. “Hold on...”

She’d already turned on her heel, but he grabbed at her elbow to stop her. She whipped around, eyes blazing, and he quickly let go of her, raising his arms in submission.

“I wasn’t trying to-”

“I have work to do.”

“What did I say?” His words were almost garbled in their haste to get out. He didn’t know how he’d offended her, but he knew that if she left, it would be hard to get her alone again to ask her.

“It’s all a joke to you, isn’t it?” she bit out.

“What is?”

“Does it give you pleasure? Mocking me?”

“I wasn’t-”

He was distracted, then, by a noise from down the hall. A voice, high-pitched and unmistakable.

Lysa.

“Seven hells,” he muttered.

His mind did not seem to be working anymore. All he knew was that he had to get _away_ and he had to do it fast. Before he realised what he was doing, he’d grabbed Brienne’s arm, pulled open a nearby broom closet and dragged her inside with him.

He slammed the door shut and it blew dust up in his face. He coughed into his elbow, eyes watering as he looked around. It was a fairly large closet, with brooms and buckets pushed to the back wall. The only light came from the crack under the door.

Brienne yanked her arm from his grasp, and even in the dim light of the closet he could see her scowl. “ _What_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Coughing?”

“Don’t try to be funny.”

“I can’t help it, it comes naturally to me.” When she gave him only a chilly look in response, he shrugged. “My apologies for my _ungentlemanly_ behaviour, but Lysa was coming.”

“You are truly a mind-boggling man,” she spat. “I’m leaving.”

She grasped the handle but he shook his head, batting her hand away. “You can’t do that. If you walk out right now, Lady Lysa will see that you were hiding in a broom closet with me. And how will that look?”

“She won’t believe that,” Brienne said, but she sounded unsure. Jaime felt a rush of triumph.

“Imagine what she will think we were doing in here.”

“Stop it.”

“Should I unlace my breeches?”

“ _Stop_ it.”

“Brienne of Tarth,” he said, revelling in his act. “Stealing the Kingslayer from right under her chosen Lady’s nose. Think of the _scandal._ Think of the ghastly love ballads!”

She hissed at him, and obediently, he lowered his voice. “It seems, my lady, that unless you want to cause a ruckus in Riverrun, you’re just going to have to wait here till she leaves.”

She crossed her arms, still glaring absolute daggers at him. Outside, they could hear a long stream of muffled words - Lysa giving out instructions to the servants.

Jaime leaned against a wall and then slid down so he was sitting on top of an upturned bucket. He tossed his book into a pile of old rags. 

“What in the name of the Gods are you doing?” she demanded.

“Getting comfortable, we might be here a while.”

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, but it was more to herself than him.

For a moment, he simply watched her. She paced about the closet, almost knocking her head on the spiderweb covered beams on the ceiling, looking so much like a caged animal, he wanted to laugh. She wore the stubborn, cross look of a child who’d been denied sweets.

Gods, it was so much better than that look of fury she’d worn just moments before.

“What did I say?” he asked, and his voice was so soft, for a moment it seemed like she hadn’t heard. “To make you so angry?”

For a second, she just stared at him, befuddled. Then, her eyes widened and darted away, towards the door, towards the sound of Lysa’s voice echoing through the hallway.

Jaime cleared his throat. “Whatever you thought I said…”

“I know I’m ugly,” she snapped. “I just don’t need to be reminded of it every second of every day.”

Now it was his turn to get confused. “Did I call you ugly?” he racked his memory. He had called her ugly in the past, yes. But had he called her ugly out in the hallway? He couldn’t recall.

“You said I looked _fetching_ in my armour. I know what that means.”

“That it looks good on you?”

“Stop it,” she ground out. “Just stop it. I know when people are mocking me. I’ve dealt with it my whole life. People sniggering behind my back… thinking I didn’t realise I was being made fun of.” She must have misread the look on his face, for she gave a dry, derisive laugh. “You think you’re the first man to tell me what a great lumbering beast I am? They used to call me Brienne the _beauty._ It was a great amusing joke back in Tarth.”

Jaime’s chest felt tight, uncomfortably so. He tried to speak, but the words lodged in his throat. He hadn’t even considered that she might assume he was being cruel. They’d exchanged many an insult since he’d arrived at Riverrun, but it was all in jest. He’d never intended to be scathing.

And… well… he’d felt… or hoped, perhaps, that things had changed between them since he’d told her about the Mad King.

But now he saw the hurt and fury in her eyes and knew that no amount of excuses or apologies could convince her of his true intentions.

So he said the first thing that came to his lips. “I couldn’t read till I was almost ten.” Brienne’s face wrinkled in confusion so he continued quickly. “The words used to dance across the page. I couldn’t make sense of them. I tried to explain to the maester but he just thought I didn’t want to read.” She was giving him that look again, the one she’d given him in her chambers when he’d told her the truth about the Mad King - alarmed and so painfully innocent looking - that he turned away and barrelled on. “My father thought I was an idiot. My sister thought I was an idiot. And Tyrion… well… he never called me an idiot out loud, but next to him, what else could I be? He was already reading when he was in his fourth year, and I was still struggling with the words on the page.”

The words were now spilling out of him so fast he thought he might choke on them. He reached over and plucked his book from the pile of rags. He opened it to a random page, staring down at the words that still refused to stay in their place. 

“Father used to sit me down for four hours a day and force me to learn. I did learn, eventually. I learned how to figure out the words even though they were jumping around the page. But my father’s opinion of me never changed. No matter how many fancy words I learned, how many books I read, he never saw me as anything more than an idiot.”

He let out a sharp exhale. “Last year, I met a man. His name was Locke, and he thought I was a complete prick because I spoke using big words. Said to me that he could see I thought of myself as very clever. That was surprising… because… truly, I never had thought of myself as particularly clever. Cersei loves to remind me that I’m a bit thick, and I’ve been inclined to believe her.” He looked up at her then, through his eyelashes. “It’s hard, isn’t it? To believe that someone might think differently of us, when we’ve grown up hearing the opposite?”

She was staring back at him, brilliant blue eyes large and jaw slack. Her lips parted and he waited for her to speak.

The door slammed open. Jaime knocked the bucket over in his haste to stand. Brienne barely missed smacking her head into the ceiling beam. In the doorway, a mousey maid stood, looking alarmed, her eyes flicking between the two of them.

Immediately, Brienne changed. Though red-faced and flustered, she set her chin high and walked out of the door with a small, curt nod to the maid. Jaime followed, but not before shooting the maid a quick wink. Her cheeks flooded with red, and he hoped that was enough to buy her silence.

Brienne was walking so fast, Jaime had a hard time keeping up, despite the fact that his legs were not much shorter than hers.

“Lady Brienne…”

He needed to know what she was going to say. Needed? Wanted? Whatever it was, his curiosity was acute and desperate.

“Lady Bri-”

“Ser Jaime! There you are.”

Jaime stopped in his tracks, and turned. A maester came hobbling up, holding a scroll with the seal of House Baratheon on the front. He was holding it gingerly, like it was a vial of poison or someone else’s smallclothes. Jaime stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Ser Jaime,” he said. “A raven…”

Jaime’s mind remained blank as he took the letter from the old man’s hands. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, he realised that Brienne had stopped, a little ahead of him down the corridor. He could feel her gaze, hot on the back of his neck.

He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, and his stomach dropped to his knees.

_You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of_

_Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms,_ _and Protector of the Realm_

_and_

_Cersei of the House Lannister, daughter of Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock._

He looked up at Brienne, and her gaze was still and unreadable, and Jaime felt like he was drowning.

***

Brienne did not speak to Jaime Lannister for the rest of the day. She’d tried. Truly, she had. When the maester came running up to him with the letter she’d stopped in her tracks. An inexplicable part of her had already known what the letter was going to say. She didn’t know how she knew, but she watched as he read the invitation and when he looked up at her with a gaze so wounded, she knew she was right.

Despite herself, her heart went out to him.

She tried to speak as he passed, but he was caught in a haze and didn’t seem to hear her.

She didn’t see him again until dinner, which was where he got spectacularly, roaringly drunk.

He didn’t make a scene - he was a Lannister, raised by Tywin Lannister, he would never make a scene. That honour, she’d learned, belonged specially to Tyrion. Jaime kept quiet the entire evening but he swallowed down glass after glass of wine, until even Lysa was giving him strange looks.

Brienne had dinner with Lysa and Catelyn every once in a while. It was a fairly common occurrence on normal days, but she was generally exiled to the back of the room during feasts and special occasions. She herself liked to have the occasional dinners in the inns and taverns, where she’d befriended most of the innkeepers and their children. It suited her. She didn’t like routine, and was perfectly content to have her dinners elsewhere.

Still, she was glad she was having dinner with them tonight, despite the fact that the last time she had eaten dinner with them, her appetite had been ruined when Jaime had jumped up from the table and quickly announced that he had loose stools. Lysa had seated her right besides Cat so three of them could discuss the upcoming trip to King’s Landing for the royal wedding. Jaime sat across from them, in between Tyrion and Petyr Baelish. It was the perfect opportunity, she felt, for her to offer her condolences to Jaime in a formal setting that did not require her to see him covered in sweat, or grinning fiendishly, or standing too-close to her in dusty cupboards.

It was all she could do not to blush a dark crimson just thinking about the events of the morning - him dragging his thumb across her knuckles, him telling her about his childhood in that deep, ringing voice of his, him standing so close she could smell the scent of lavender he used on his hair.

How did she of all people manage to get herself in such situations?

She knew he was just teasing her by doing all that, but her traitorous body had been _reacting_ to it. Just his thumb on her skin had made heat sizzle through her, but it was worse when he’d indicated that he might actually find her beautiful. How could he possibly find her beautiful? Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, it was true, but who could possibly behold her and believe her to be something stunning? But... was it possible that he could? 

It had been a completely idiotic train of thought, and she was glad the maid, Ayn, had caught them when she did because it had dragged her away from that ridiculous spiral of fevered thoughts.

She didn’t even _want_ Jaime Lannister. She was merely confused because he was painfully good looking and confided in her and was in awe of her fighting. And the truth was, a man with such perfect features had never even _deigned_ to look at her properly before, forget pay her attention the way he was doing. It was… bewildering, that was all. She was rattled. He had rattled her. There was still that part of her that was the pathetic girl who’d thought the boys at her ball truly wanted to dance with her. The pathetic girl who Renly Baratheon had to rescue from the jeering laughs of horrible boys.

Jaime had somehow managed to fluster the pathetic girl in her, but that didn’t mean that Brienne, the grown woman, didn’t have her senses intact. His flirting was most _definitely_ a jest, a fact obvious by the fact that before the first course had even been served, he had already consumed two glasses of wine to their dregs. This was around the point where she tried to offer him some vague sort of comfort, but Jaime had kept his attention firmly on Petyr Baelish who was talking about mining, and Brienne couldn’t get a single word in edgewise.

Petyr Baelish, for the record, was the creepiest man Brienne had ever had the misfortune of meeting. Before Lysa had set her sights on Jaime, Brienne had been positive that she had harboured affections for the young man. It seemed absurd now that anyone could possibly be attracted to both Petyr and Jaime Lannister.

Jaime had consumed three more cups of wine before the main course was placed on the table, at which point Brienne decided it would be better to simply offer her condolences the next day at lunch.

He was getting terribly unstable as the meal drew to a close. He was far, far drunker than he had been the night he told her about the Mad King. He could barely sit straight on the wooden bench, and when he poured himself more wine, he spilled half of it on the table. Eventually Tyrion - of all people - took away his wine glass and announced he was going to take his ‘exhausted brother’ to bed.

He had not caused a scene, and Tyrion had taken him away before most people could catch on to his complete inebriation. But Brienne had seen. She had counted the cups. She had watched him drowning in his grief, being utterly consumed by it. Brienne felt for him - concern, pity and a twinge in her chest she could not place.

That would have been the end of it. It _should_ have been the end of it. She had certainly _thought_ it was the end of it when she was pulling off her coat, ready to go to bed.

But then came the knocking and she’d opened the door to find him leaning against the doorway, looking aggravatingly devil-may-care for someone who had drank enough wine to leave a dragon spinning. His golden hair was an unruly mess, his tunic rumpled, and his eyes wild, and yet, he still managed to look devastatingly attractive.

Brienne gave him a confused look, and he gave her a cheerful half-wave.

“You seem to be making a habit of coming to my room in the middle of the night drunk." The jibe came naturally to her. She’d forgotten she was meant to be sympathetic. She flinched. 

But Jaime only grinned, a lazy, wide grin. “I shall not come into your room today,” he said, raising his hands. “I am… a gentleman. Gentlemen… do not enter rooms of drunk young ladies.”

“I am not drunk,” she said. “You are.” 

Jaime didn’t seem to hear her, or perhaps he did not care. He stared off into the distance, frowning. “We could all die tomorrow,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder to where he was staring and then turned back to him. “What?”

He focused his attention back to her, unguarded smile back in place. “We could die any day. So we should… live life to the abso… the absolute fullest! Don’t you agree, wench?”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname, though she was still befuddled about his presence at her door. She had expected him to be fast asleep, not philosophising about life and leaning in her doorway.

“We should do something spectacular,” he said. He hiccuped and then raised his eyebrows.

“What in the seven hells are you talking about?” she demanded.

As if in response, Jaime made a complicated hand motion and then turned and took off down the hallway.

Brienne would not have followed if she was certain he would not trip and fall and give himself life-threatening injuries. As it were, the way Jaime was stumbling down the corridors, almost knocking the torches from their braziers, she was convinced he was going to either get himself killed or set the entire castle on fire. So she took off after him.

It took a great deal of time to talk him out of trying to break into the kitchens to steal more wine, and eventually Jaime only conceded to stop drinking if she agreed to take him up to the ramparts.

The air was chill, but the stars were breath-taking. There were hundreds of them, stretching out as far as the eye could see, patterns of swirls and lines emerging here and there. Jaime sat down on the cold stone ground, his back against the rampart walls and stared up at the sheer brilliance of the night, quiet and _alive_ and just for the two of them.

“Would you have ever come up here in the middle of the night if I hadn’t forced you?” Jaime asked, turning to her.

“No,” she admitted. “The guards on duty would have thought I was losing my mind if I was wandering about the ramparts in the middle of the night.”

“I would be fine being considered mad if I could spend my nights looking at this view.”

“Would you?”

“Probably not. But I was trying to be a romantic.”

Brienne let out a bark of a laugh, unexpected and unladylike, and Jaime turned to her, looking both pleased and surprised. She turned away, embarrassed, looking down at her boots.

“Brienne of Tarth.” He said her name like he was tasting it. “You should laugh more.”

“I’d laugh if you were funny,” she said, which prompted him to split into wide grin, as dazzling as the stars above them. Brienne rubbed her hands on the cool stone floor. Her face was heating up again. “I’m sorry. About your sister’s wedding.”

Jaime gave a half-shrug, turning away. He’d perfected the expression of complete nonchalance, if not the behaviour. “I knew it was going to happen.”

“Still. It can’t be easy.”

“No,” he said. “No. It isn’t.”

They were silent for a long moment, the sound of the breeze blowing through the trees and their own even breaths the only sound Brienne could hear. Then Jaime shifted in his place.

“You could do much better than Renly Baratheon,” he said.

She snorted. “No, I couldn’t.”

“You could!” he insisted.

“You are just saying that because you despise the Baratheons.”

“That aside. I’m sure we could find you a man worthy enough for you.”

Brienne had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “You could certainly try.”

Jaime rolled his head to the side and squinted up at the stars. “What about one of the knights at Riverrun?” he rubbed his chin. He’d been growing out his beard ever since the night he’d told her about the Mad King. Upsettingly enough, the dark blonde scruff made him look even more handsome. “How about… Ser Rodryk?”

“Ser Rodryk?” she asked, disbelieving.

“And what’s wrong with him? He’s a very accomplished knight.”

“He hates me.”

“He does not.”

“He does. He hates me because he has never once been able to defeat me in our sparring sessions.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Why would he hate you for that?”

It was the kind of question that had an answer so obvious that Brienne didn’t bother answering. Jaime had turned his entire body to the side so he was facing her now. He was half in shadows, light from the torch above them flickering across his face, making him look quite eerie.

“What if we were to seduce him?”

“ _We?”_

“Well, clearly you need my help to do it. Come now... I'm sure there's a part of you that just wants a man to rip off your clothes and _ravish_ you." 

Brienne bit down on her lip so hard, she worried she might have drawn blood. "If there is, that part of me still would not want Ser Rodryk." 

Jaime gave her an almost comical pout. "You seem to find fault with every man I suggest.”

“You haven’t _suggested_ any men. You’ve only suggested Ser Rodryk. And I never said _I_ didn’t like him.”

“So you do like him?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t have a bushy beard.” Jaime pointed out.

Brienne gave an incredulous shake of her head. “That isn’t my _only_ criteria.”

“What then?” Jaime asked, eyes roving over her face. “What is it that you want in a man? What is an ideal man to you?”

Brienne’s skin was breaking out in goosebumps. As much as she wanted to, she found she could not tear her eyes away from Jaime’s face. “I don’t know.”

“That is horseshit.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

“I've never been with a man, but I always thought if I were to try, Oberyn Martell would be a good choice." He grinned cheekily at her and she shook her head. 

“I _meant_ what you like in a woman.”

Jaime licked his lips and looked off into the distance, frowning. “Independence,” he said, finally.

She didn’t understand how he always managed to surprise her. “Independence?” she asked, skeptically.

Jaime shrugged. “It’s easy to make yourself less… to make yourself… half of someone else. To structure your identity around that person. To believe that they hold the power to your own happiness.” He gave a little sigh, and Brienne’s heart fluttered. “I suppose I admire people who don’t fall into that trap.”

“And you don’t think Lady Lysa is independent?” Brienne asked.

“Lady Lysa,” Jaime repeated, sarcastically. He shook his head. “She doesn’t know a thing about me, and yet she wants to marry me.”

“Yes, but sh-”

“Don’t think you can distract me, wench,” he said. “It’s your turn.”

“I don’t know what I want in a man.”

“You do.”

“I don’t…,” Jaime raised his eyebrows and she sighed, conceding. “I like… a man who can admit his mistakes.”

“How romantic.”

“It's in the same zone as wanting an  _independent_ woman.”

“Independence is frighteningly sexy.”

It was that word that did it. The word _sexy._ Brienne felt the heat searing down to her gut where it pooled, simmering and thick. She was suddenly aware how close Jaime was sitting to her. They weren’t touching, but she could feel his presence as heavily as if they were; the warmth of him besides her. She was close enough to see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the ridged scar below his ear. He turned to face her, his eyes dipping down till they snagged on her lips.

Her breath lodged in her throat. Her heart was hammering so hard she was afraid it would crack a rib. 

She didn’t know if she had leaned in or whether it was him, but they were even closer now. So close, she could see the ridge of his collarbone and smell the wine on his breath.

Brienne jerked backwards, startling Jaime so much that he almost tipped over. What was she _doing?_ He was drunk out of his mind, and depressed about his sister and lover getting married. Was she truly allowing herself to be used as his temporary solution? His fix? Why? Because he told her his secrets? Because he didn’t seem disgusted by her? What was _wrong_ with her?

Brienne shot to her feet. Jaime blinked slowly, disoriented, like he didn’t know where he was and what he was doing.

“I should get to bed,” she mumbled.

He continued looking at her, unfocused and lost.

“Do you need help getting to your room?” she asked. She couldn’t look at his face.

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

She gave him a brisk nod, and turned away, willing herself not to look back. He didn't say anything as she left the ramparts, and she was glad of it. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be called "The One Where Lysa Tully Continues To Be The Worst"

**FIVE.**

Jaime woke up the next morning with a hangover that threatened to leave him bedridden. Unfortunately, staying in bed was not an option. They were meant to be riding for King’s Landing at first light, and he’d already slept in past breakfast.

Tyrion had woken him, holding out clothes for him to put on, and then stood by as he changed and washed his face. 

“You snuck out of your room last night,” Tyrion said.

“Just learning from you, little brother.” Jaime winced as his head throbbed, another pulsing beat. He could feel the pounding behind his eyes, and his stomach was roiling.

Jaime Lannister. Getting drunk. Making a scene. Wouldn’t his father be proud?

“Where ever did you go?” Tyrion asked. 

“Just wandering about.” Jaime turned to find Tyrion holding out a small glass bottle. “What’s this?”

“The best hangover cure in the Seven Kingdoms. Bottom’s up.”

Jaime put the bottle to his lips and knocked the drink back. It hit him right in the back of the throat - bitter and thick. He gagged.

“Are you trying to get me to throw up?” he demanded.

Tyrion simply shrugged and gestured to Jaime’s bags. “I hope you’re packed. Everyone is waiting for you.”

Jaime had a feeling Tyrion was exaggerating -it was his job as a younger brother to be as annoying as possible, after all - but he picked up his pace as he followed Tyrion out the door to where a servant was waiting, red-faced, to take Jaime’s bags to the carriages. Jaime gave him a nod of thanks and then commenced down the stairs, to the Front Hall.

There was chaos at the entrance to the castle. No one had been given much prior notice about the trip, given the last minute nature of the invite, and that fact was very apparent from the way people were shouting for their bags and fretting about having forgotten something. Most people were dressed for their long days of travel with thick, comfortable clothes. Bearskin rugs and baskets full of food were being hoisted into the carriages.

Jaime scanned the crowd for Brienne and caught sight of her standing by the door, as stiff-backed and straight as ever. She saw him across the room and for a moment, he thought he saw her freeze. But by the time he wound his way through the crowd and arrived at her side, she was back to normal.

“Lady Brienne.”

She didn’t look him in the eye. “Ser Jaime.” She swallowed. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better now. Tyrion gave me some god-awful concoction that tasted like what I’d assume eating lizards would be like, but…”

He trailed off. Her eyes were darting through the crowd, a nervous, jittery look, like she was embarrassed to be seen with him. He copied her movement, eyes grazing the crowd, until he caught sight of two servants watching them and whispering to each other. As soon as they spotted him looking, they turned away, busying themselves with taking the luggage out to the carriages.

A little away from where he and Brienne stood, a guard in green tinted armour was watching them, a half-smirk on his face.

“They saw us on the ramparts,” Brienne muttered, under her breath.

“Or they heard about our tryst in the broom closet." 

Brienne gave him a look so horrified that he couldn’t help but laugh.

“No one saw us!” Brienne hissed. “Only Ayn did… and she’s _nice._ She wouldn’t spread gossip.”

“Spreading gossip is what maids _do.”_ Looking at her rapidly blanching face, however, Jaime felt a rush of regret. He knew the spread of such gossip was much worse for women than it was for men. “I’m sure you’re right and she didn’t say anything,” he added, hastily. “And we were lucky that your Lady Lysa had already left before we were caught.”

“Don’t say _caught,_ we weren’t _doing_ anything.”

He couldn’t bear the look of apprehension on her face. “Tell me,” he said, keeping his voice light. “What _were_ we talking about on the ramparts?”

Confusion laced through her brows. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember we were up there. I can’t…recall what we spoke about.” The memories of the night before were fuzzy and missing pieces. He couldn't remember what had led to her leaving, but he did recall half-stumbling back to his room alone and a peculiar ache in his chest. 

There was another flicker in her eyes, but this time it wasn’t apprehension or embarrassment or fear. This was… something else. Something he couldn’t place. She turned away from him again.

“You were plotting about how I could seduce Ser Rodryk.”

“Ser Rodryk?” he asked, far too loudly.

Across the room, Ser Rodryk - thick dark hair and dimpled chin - turned to look at them. In sync, Jaime and Brienne turned away. Jaime started sniggering.

“It’s not funny,” Brienne bit out.

“I’m a constant source of embarrassment to you, aren’t I?” Jaime asked, glancing at her.

She scowled. She opened her mouth - to voice a snarky comment, no doubt - but then immediately closed it again, her eyes catching on something behind Jaime. She stood up straighter, at attention. Jaime gave her a questioning glance and then made to turn. 

An arm linked itself around Jaime’s, and he started. “Oh, Lady Lysa,” he said. He didn’t know how she’d sidled up to him so quietly. “You crept up on me.”

Lysa wasn’t looking at him. She was smiling at Brienne, a strange conspiratorial expression on her face, as though the two of them were in on some inside joke Jaime knew nothing about. He glanced between the two of them, searchingly, but Brienne’s face was a perfect mask of blankness, and he could not for the life of him tell what Lysa’s cloying smile meant.

“Brienne,” Lysa said. “Cat was looking for you.”

Brienne gave a short bow and then turned on her heel. Jaime watched her walk away. Lysa cleared her throat, and he turned towards her.

“Ser Jaime. You will be riding in the carriage with me, won’t you?” She was putting on a high pitched voice, as though she was trying to sound pleading or child-like. Jaime had to resist flinching.

“Oh, uh… I…” Jaime scratched his chin. “Actually, I had promised Tyrion I would keep him company.”

Lysa looked utterly put out by this. “Is Lord Tyrion incapable of being alone?”

“No, he just that… uh… well, he was actually hoping to speak to me about a… sensitive issue.”

“A sensitive issue?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Her voice was still thick with disdain. 

“Yes, you see… after his last visit to the brothels, he’s had a… bit of a situation… down below. The maester prescribed a tincture but it was not available in your stores, so we have plans to stop at the shop of a healer just outside Harrenhal on the way, to pick it up.”

“And why does he need you for that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Gods, he wished Tyrion was here. His brother’s silver tongue would be far more persuasive than his own, clumsy one. Their father said Tyrion could talk the ocean into buying salt. Of course, their father always said it with derision in his voice, but Jaime thought it was a very agreeable quality to have.

“Oh, because he’s terribly embarrassed. He doesn’t wish to take any guards along with him, and I can’t bear the idea of him travelling around unprotected. But don't say a word to him! He would simply die if he knew I was telling you all this right now.”

Lysa’s nose wrinkled. Her expression was one of pure repugnance, but she sighed. “Alright then, we shall travel together once we cross Harrenhal.” She smiled then, dripping with sweetness. “I am very much looking forward to it, Ser Jaime.”

“I am too,” Jaime said, hoping his reluctance was not apparent in his voice. 

***

“She thinks,” Tyrion began, slowly, “that I have…”

Jaime grimaced. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of any other excuse at the moment.”

“You lack an imagination,” Tyrion said, shaking his head. But all he did was lay back on the cushions.

Their carriage was rumbling down the road, picking up speed. Jaime watched the castle at Riverrun grow smaller and smaller. He felt a twinge in his heart.

“You aren’t angry with me?” Jaime asked.

Tyrion shrugged. “I’m sure most people already believe I’m infected.” He rolled his head so he was looking at Jaime. “So. I suppose father’s plan to get you to agree to marry Lady Tully was unsuccessful.”

“If Catelyn was not already engaged to Ned Stark I would have requested her hand instead,” Jaime muttered.

“Would you?”

Jaime watched the road as it sped past, pale brown and covered in rocks and cracks. “If Lady Catelyn is moving to Winterfell, do you think she will take Brienne with her?”

Tyrion’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“She is her sworn sword, but she’s not a knight… so… it’s in an unofficial capacity. And I can’t imagine she’d be very happy in Winterfell. It’s dreadfully cold up there.”

“You are changing the topic,” Tyrion said.

Jaime turned to him, raising his eyebrows. “What was the topic?”

“Would you have really agreed to marry Catelyn Stark?”

Jaime’s eyes dipped to the ground. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Jaime, you know father will not just let you say _no_  to Lysa.”

“I know,” Jaime said, irritated.

“You’re going to have to move on from Cersei someday.”

Jaime shrugged. “I’ve already moved on.”

“Have you?” Tyrion leaned forward, trying to catch Jaime’s eye. “You drank more wine last night than I’ve had in the past three days.”

“Yes well, I am much bigger than you.”

“You knew this was going to happen,” Tyrion said, ignoring the joke. “You knew she was going to marry him.”

Jaime said nothing. He didn’t want to talk about Cersei, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about her marriage.

“I tried something, and it didn’t work,” Jaime said, keeping his voice even. “Now I can try to move on.”

“You will try, won’t you?” Tyrion asked. When Jaime said nothing, Tyrion grabbed his arm. “Jaime… she wants to be queen. She wants that more than anything.”

Cersei always said the most important thing was family. It was more important than money, she’d said. More important than power.

But did she really believe that?

Ever since Jaime had told Brienne about the Mad King, he'd had one question running through his mind.

Why hadn’t he been able to tell Cersei?

They’d been born together, had grown up together. They knew everything there was to know about each other, every intimate detail. And yet… he hadn’t been able to tell her this. It was the biggest thing he had ever done, and he’d let her believe what everyone else did - that Jaime Lannister was nothing more than a man who killed his king to serve his house. That he was nothing more and nothing less than an ambitious power-seeker.

Did he really believe what he’d told Brienne? That he hadn’t told Cersei because she’d think him weak? Or… was it more than that?

Was it because he knew she would _prefer_ this version of the story?

“Do you think she cares about me?” Jaime asked, and his voice was thin, reedy.

Tyrion’s eyes darted away, and it was confirmation enough. Jaime sighed.

“I think you perhaps care about her more than she cares about you,” Tyrion said, diplomatic as always. He reached for a bag at his feet and pulled out a bottle of wine and a goblet. Jaime rolled his eyes and ran his hands through his hair.

“And why is that? Because she sleeps with other men? And I don’t?”

“Do you want to sleep with other men?” Tyrion asked, amusement in his voice. He took a deep sip from the goblet. It splashed over the side and dripped on Jaime’s boots. 

Jaime made an affronted noise and swiped at his boots with a napkin. “Seven hells.”

Tyrion licked his lips. There was a strange look on his face now. “Jaime,” he said, softly. “Do you really want me to tell you what I think?”

Jaime froze, the napkin hanging from his fingertips. “I don’t know.” His voice was faint, even to his own ears.

He couldn’t look at Tyrion. He didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes. It had always been Tyrion who was looked at with pity, and even that always left a sour taste in Jaime’s mouth whenever he witnessed it. It was unbearable when the spotlight of concern was turned on him.

He knew Tyrion and Cersei despised each other, they were casual in their hatred, in their distaste for one another. But for Tyrion to ask if he could come clean about their relationship? If their usual hatred for each other was fire, Jaime could tell that whatever Tyrion wanted to say now was nothing short of wildfire.

It was going to devastate him.

Was he ready for that?

Taking a shaky breath, Jaime looked up at his little brother. “Yes,” he said, voice firm. “I’d like to know.”

A silence followed - overwhelming and full of nervous anticipation. Tyrion took a large gulp of his wine and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. When he spoke, his voice was thick.

“I’m glad I came with you to Riverrun. I’m glad we got this time together - just you and me.”

Jaime’s stomach clenched. “Me too. But… we still have time together, Tyrion. I’m not leaving Casterly Rock.”

“Will you really leave her, Jaime?” Tyrion asked. “Would you really leave her in King’s Landing and come back to Casterly Rock?”

“I went to Riverrun without her." 

“For a month. This is the rest of your life.” Tyrion swallowed, eyes darting away from Jaime. “I miss you when you’re with her.”

Something hit him then. Something painful that burned through his veins and stung at his eyes. Tyrion was still looking away from Jaime.

“She’s always hated me,” Tyrion whispered. “She’s always hated me, and father has always hated me. You’ve always been the only one on my side. You were the only one who didn’t treat me like a monster.”

“That’s not true,” Jaime said, but his voice came out rough, like sandpaper. There was a lump growing in his throat, large and painful.

“You’re all I had. I wouldn’t have been able to survive my childhood without you.” Tyrion looked down, at his shoes dangling off the floor of the carriage. “But sometimes… when you’re with her… it’s like you’re someone else. You are some other version of you. You look like you, and you sound like you, but… you’re not you.” He turned away, keeping his eyes fixed out of the window. “That’s when I miss you the most.”

Jaime’s throat constricted so hard it was like he was being strangled.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice was hoarse.

Tyrion gave him a wan smile, but said nothing more. 

***

The journey to King's Landing was long and arduous, but Jaime was aware it was going to become even more so once he was forced to join Lysa in her carriage.

He counted down the days with all the enthusiasm of a man counting down to his death.

He and Tyrion were behind the rest of the party, after stopping at Harrenhal for a few hours because of Jaime’s lie. Tyrion visited a brothel there - clearly, he was determined to make Jaime’s lie a reality - and so Jaime had wandered around Harrenhal by himself. He walked along the cobblestoned streets, his hood pulled up, and felt an acute sense of loneliness.

Brienne was one of the flag bearers and had ridden ahead of the rest of the party with some of the knights, including - Jaime had noticed, a little distressed - Ser Rodryk. He didn’t really like Ser Rodryk, truth be told. He was a good fighter, but he was a little unpleasant. And he looked arrogant. Jaime hoped Brienne wouldn’t have a hard time with him on her journey. He was distressed, of course, because he had embarrassed Brienne by calling Ser Rodryk’s attention towards her in the Front Hall, before they had ridden off for King’s Landing. He didn’t want the journey to be uncomfortable for her, and he was sorry if he had put her in such a position.

Of course, his own journey became uncomfortable once he and Tyrion made it to Sow’s Horn. The horses were allowed to rest for a day there, which was when Jaime was made to switch over to Lysa’s carriage. Catelyn, who had been sitting with Lysa, was shifted to Tyrion's carriage. Jaime watched, enviously, as Catelyn took his spot across from Tyrion.

A servant led him to the carriage with Lysa, and then they were off. Jaime sat on the opposite side, looking warily at the windows of the carriage that had been shut firmly. He sincerely hoped she was not going to attempt anything during the trip. There were too many people around, and someone was always popping in to see if they needed something. Surely she would refrain?

Lysa was watching him now, looking disconcertingly like a viper about to strike. Jaime cleared his throat.

“I hope the journey has been comfortable for you so far, my lady.”

She waved a dismissive hand at him. “Yes, yes. Enough with the pleasantries. Do tell me… did you like Riverrun?”

“Very much,” Jaime said, and he was surprised to find he wasn’t lying.

Lysa smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m thrilled.”

Jaime nodded. They fell into silence. Jaime picked at a thread coming out from the seat upholstery and wondered how long he’d have to suffer through this.

“It will be Edmure’s some day,” Lysa said, wrinkling her nose. “He’s such a dolt. I hope he marries a woman with a fragment of common sense so at least she can lead him in a somewhat sensible direction.”

Jaime chewed on his bottom lip, eyes darting towards her and away. He wasn’t sure if he should agree with her. Wouldn’t that be considered rude? Edmure was her brother, after all.

“Your sister,” Lysa said, voice growing saccharine. Jaime’s stomach shrivelled up. “She’s done well for herself, hasn’t she?”

“She has,” Jaime said, plastering on a fake smile.

“Robert is an exceedingly handsome man.”

“He is.”

“And Cersei is a very cunning woman.”

Jaime flexed his fingers. He felt like Lysa was angling towards something, though he could not figure out what it was.

“The rumours are not true, are they?” Lysa asked.

The change in the tone of her voice was startling. Jaime stared at her, blinking. “Sorry?”

“I’ve heard a rumour about you. And her. From many people. They say that you were with her. In a… carnal fashion.”

Jaime felt the tips of his ears sear with heat. His chest felt like it was filled with sediment. Lysa was watching him, prim and expectant. 

“Of course not,” he said. “People despise our family so they make up such rumours. It's politics, nothing more.”

Lysa leaned back against her pillows, smirking triumphantly. “I told Cat it was a lie. I told her that you would _never_ do something so _revolting._ ”

It felt like several small pins were being stuck into his chest, each pin prick acute and painful. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Absolutely revolting.”

They fell into silence again. Jaime glanced at his palm and found that he had left half-moon imprints in his skin. Lysa pulled out a hand-mirror from somewhere and began checking her hair in it.

“You’ve been growing out your beard, Ser Jaime. You will be trimming it before the wedding, surely?”

“Of course,” he said. He thought again of beardless Ser Rodryk with his dimpled chin. “How far ahead of us are the flag bearers?”

Lysa looked up, arching an eyebrow at the abrupt change of topic. “Only a half-day’s ride. Why do you ask?”

“I’m used to riding with them,” Jaime said. “Whenever we went with my father to visit other kingdoms, I’d be on a horse, riding with the other knights. Truth be told, I’m not used to being in a carriage.”

Lysa made a disinterested humming sound. Jaime fiddled with the thread in the seat again.

Jaime cleared his throat. “Is it safe? For Lady Brienne to be riding with all those men?”

“Oh yes… you and Brienne have gotten quite close, haven’t you?” There was a tinge of something strange in her voice.

“It’s not like that,” Jaime said quickly, thinking again of the look of horror and worry on Brienne’s face when he had told her that someone might have seen them coming out of the closet together.

He expected Lysa to say something sarcastic or perhaps, passive-aggressively accuse him of something, but instead she let out a large, booming laugh. Jaime stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Oh Ser Jaime, you are truly as uproarious as they say,” she shook her head. “As though I would ever imagine you and _her._ Have you seen her? I mean, I adore her. She’s lovely. But she’s a great lumbering beast.”

Jaime had not enjoyed Lysa’s company over the past three and a half weeks, but until this very moment, he hadn’t realised that he hated her. Now he felt his body go stiff with loathing. His teeth clacked together, painfully.

“Have you seen the teeth on her?” Lysa continued. “They're like that of a _horse._ Truly. I couldn’t even  _imagine_ having to grow up looking like that.”

“I can’t imagine it was easy,” Jaime said, and his voice was like ice, even though his blood was boiling through his veins.

“She doesn’t _try_ either. She’s so dour. And those god-awful things she wears! She might as well be dressed in a potato sack.”

Jaime pressed his lips together, trying to keep his biting words inside. Lysa looked terribly amused and pleased with herself, and didn’t seem to notice that Jaime was not smiling along with her.

“I didn’t notice,” he said.

“Ser Jaime,” Lysa said, still laughing. “You are too kind.”

Jaime’s jaw was starting to hurt from how hard he was clenching it.

“But I suppose that’s the way _they_ are,” Lysa added, thoughtfully.

“They?”

“Oh you know… women who are interested in other women.”

Jaime's voice was low when he spoke. “That’s presumptuous." 

“To assume she’s into women?”

“To assume women who are interested in other women behave and dress a certain way,” he said. “From what I’ve gathered the only thing they have in common is preferring women over men.”

She shrugged, dismissive. “Why are we even discussing this? It’s distasteful.”

“What?” Jaime asked. “Are they _revolting_ to you?”

Lysa seemed taken-aback by his tone. “Excuse me?”

It was spilling out of Jaime now, rage and hurt and the sheer injustice of everything Lysa had been saying since the moment he sat down with her. “People seem to believe there’s only one right way to love. That men have to be with women. That lords have to be with ladies. That ugly people are not deserving of love. That people who love differently from the majority are _distasteful_. That men who like men, or women who like women, or men and women who like both, or who don’t crave romance at all… that there’s somehow something wrong with them. But we don’t get to choose who we love. It's... that is beyond our control." 

He stopped, slightly out of breath, surprised with his own outburst. 

Lysa was gawking at him. Then she sat back, and her lips shrivelled up tightly. “My,” she said, after a long pause. “You have a lot of opinions, don’t you? I do think it's  _very_ charming." She brought her nails up to her face and started inspecting them. "Shall we have some wine?" 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of see Jaime as a demisexual. Anyone else feel that?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wanted to show Brienne's side of the journey to King's Landing as well, but unfortunately there wasn't really a way to include Jaime much in this chapter. I promise to go back to our regularly scheduled Jaime/Brienne interactions next update though! 
> 
> Thank you all for your absolutely wonderful comments on the last chapter!! My heart is just so full.

**SIX.**

Brienne was used to being a woman in a man’s world.

It was unladylike to fight, or to wear trousers, or to cut your hair short. And Brienne… well, Brienne did all those things.

She’d always seen her mannishness and ugliness as a burden. Inside, she’d long felt like she was just a girl; one who wanted to dance with a boy, one who wanted to be told she was pretty, one who wanted to be appreciated by a charming man with warm, shining eyes. But it was freeing, in a way, to live outside of the boundaries of womanhood. She could wear what she wanted, fight in tourneys, keep her hair short in the months of boiling summer. She could eat what she liked, and she wasn’t being forced to marry a man she didn’t want to.

But she was still a woman. A fact that the men accompanying her to King’s Landing seemed to be more than a little aware of.

One of the knights - Ser Varic - kept giving her sneering looks as they rode down the King’s Road, and Ser Rodryk gave her the occasional peculiar glance, but as much as she could, she kept her chin up high, gaze fixed firmly on the road. It was alright when they were riding - she could ride at her own pace, observe the surroundings and ignore her companions. It was actually pleasant, in a way. She liked the freedom of it all - the wind on her skin and the rolling fields around her. 

The true torture came at night, when they made camp.

Brienne always set her tent up far away from the men so they couldn’t see her change her clothes and take a piss, but she could still hear them. It didn’t help that they didn’t even try to be soft. She could hear them mock her. She could hear them laugh, raucous and sneering. She could hear them ask the question - “What is she so afraid of? Who would rape _her?”_

She would hear it all. And then she would have to join them around the campfire, to eat beans or crab stew in hard sourdough bread and pretend she hadn’t heard a thing.

Only one more night till they reached King’s Landing. She could hardly stand another minute in their company.

They were sitting around the fire, eating watery broth and hard black bread when she joined them. Silently, she took her bowl, filled it, grabbed a chunk of bread and sat down on the ground, the rocks digging into her thighs. She was drinking the soup slowly, looking at the dirt crusted on her boots when she smelled him. He smelled like stale sweat and sour breath. She looked up.

Ser Varic was looming above her, his thick dark eyebrows pulled together in a sneer. She could see the hair in his nostrils, and the stubble on his chin.

“You always sit far away from us,” he said. She could see his yellowing teeth as he spoke.

Brienne shrugged, taking a bite out of the bread. It was hard and rough. Gods, she missed proper food.

Varic dropped down to his knees beside her, leering. “Why is that? Do we have lice? Or crabs?”

Brienne glanced at the other men. They were all watching the show, amusement glimmering in their eyes. From his spot on a log near the pot of broth, Ser Rodryk smirked.

Varic leaned in towards her, his face uncomfortably close to her own. Brienne turned away, jaw clenched in defiance.

“What is it, bitch? You think you’re better than us don’t you? Great sow. Just because you downed a few men in the tourney.”

“I downed all the men in the tourney,” she replied, crisply. “In case you’ve forgotten, I won that prize.”

His lips twitched. The other men around the campfire had gone silent, their mouths pressed in thin lines. She could feel the heat of their hatred from where she sat. She swallowed thickly, but didn’t take back the words.

Ser Varic licked his lips, his eyes raking over her face with a scrutiny that made her skin crawl. “I suppose when no one wants to fuck you, you can spend more time with the sword.”

Brienne turned to him, keeping her gaze hard and unyielding. “Odd then that you’re still so terrible at sparring.”

There was a clank - a dropped goblet - and the men around the campfire snorted with laughter. Varic’s face went white.

Calmly, she put her bowl of soup to her lips. His words had stung, despite the fact that she didn’t care what he thought about her. She was the last living heir of Tarth. It was not in the least bit unusual for her to be a maiden, and while she knew her romantic prospects were limited, she also knew that the snivelling men who agreed to ‘settle’ for her were not men she was willing to settle for.

She knew all this logically. And yet, her heart smarted anyway.

Unbidden, she thought again of what Jaime had said to her. She had spent her whole childhood believing she was ugly, why would she ever believe anything else? And these men… they could see that. They could see how much her ugliness consumed her, and they were using it as a weapon against her. They were jealous, she realised, suddenly, shockingly. They were jealous that she was a better fighter than them, that she knew how to outsmart them, and so they were trying to hit her where it hurt.

Why should they be able to wield it against her? She knew she was ugly. She knew she was as ugly as she had been when she was a girl in Tarth, being called _Brienne the Beauty._ But she was not the same woman she was then. She would no longer go to a ball expecting men to dance with her. She was stronger now. Smarter. She was the kind of woman who could make grown men insecure simply by _being herself._

Now that… _that_ was power.

And like Renly, who swooped in to dance with her when the other men would not, the ones who mattered most would reveal themselves.Screw all the rest of them.

Brienne looked up at Varic, giving him a bitter smile. “Anything else?”

Varic grabbed at her arm and the bowl of soup fell from her fingers, spilling all over her boots. His face had gone purple with fury and rage.

Brienne gave an indignant yelp. “What are you-?”

“Listen to me, bitch,” he growled, spittle flying from his lips. “You are nothing. Do you understand me?”

“Let. Go. Of. Me.”

“Or what?!” he sneered. His breath was sour on her cheek.

She pulled her arm out of his grip so vehemently that he lost his balance and toppled over. He gritted his teeth, eyes flashing wildly as he got to his feet.

“Varic,” Ser Rodryk called out, his tone aloof and cool. “Leave her be.”

Varic’s lips twitched. For a moment, his gaze stayed on Brienne, the hatred in his eyes scorching her where she sat. Then, he turned to Rodryk and spread his arms wide. “Just having a bit of fun.”

Rodryk gave a vague wave and turned back to his supper. Brienne felt her face growing hot. Anger surged through her veins, bubbling in her gut. Without another word, she stood, picked up her dirt crusted bowl, dumped it in the soapy tub by the fire and headed back to her tent.

Only one more night to go.

Gods, she couldn't wait. 

***

It was barely dawn when Brienne and the other flag bearers began preparing for the last stretch of their journey. Brienne checked her horse for injuries and then fed him, brushing his shining coat as he guzzled down the hay. Then, she walked back to her tent. She was in the middle of dismantling it, sweat beading on her brow, when Ser Rodryk came up to her.

He was as tall as she was, broad shouldered and strong jawed. He walked with a strange gait, as though he was puffing his chest out as he moved. Brienne wiped the sweat from her eyes and blinked at him, wondering what on earth he wanted from her. They had barely exchanged more than a word or two the entire trip, though he had been sending her some strange looks. Likely because of Jaime Lannister loudly announcing his name to the entire castle. Bloody idiot. 

“Brienne,” Ser Rodryk said, nodding slightly. She noticed, idly, that he hadn’t called her _Lady Brienne,_ as was her proper title.

“Ser Rodryk,” she answered.

The bemusement in her voice was a lot more obvious than she had intended it to be, but if Ser Rodryk heard it, he made no indication. He scratched his jaw, gazing up at the brightening sky. Brienne began to roll up her tent.

“The men were rude to you yesterday,” he said. It didn’t sound like an apology.

Brienne narrowed her eyes a fraction. She waited a moment. But when he said nothing more, her hackles began to rise. Her voice was steely when she spoke. “Ser Varic grabbed me in a threatening manner. I’d say that goes beyond _rude._ ”

Ser Rodryk let out a long-suffering sort of sigh. “Yes, well… he’s a bit rough around the edges. That’s just how he is. You shouldn’t have pushed him.”

Brienne had to swallow down the venomous words threatening to leave her lips. Agitated, she shoved her rolled-up tent into one of her saddlebags. "I did what I had to." 

Ser Rodryk folded his arms across his broad chest. “You added fuel to the fire by beating the men in the tourney. I think from here on out, it is wisest if you simpl-”

Brienne whipped around so fast that Ser Rodryk startled, taking a step backwards. She was trying her hardest to keep her breathing even, her words calm, but that familiar fury was wrapping itself around her bones, writhing in her blood. “So I should have thrown the tourney to spare your fragile egos?” she spat. "I should have lost and wept because that is what a lady must do, is that right?" 

Ser Rodryk scoffed. He had green eyes, like those of Jaime Lannister, but his seemed… lacklustre. Flat. Dull eyes for an even duller man.

“The tourney was biased in your favour." 

“I won that tourney fair and square,” she said, a hiss through gritted teeth.

Ser Rodryk’s voice rose an octave. “The men just didn’t want to wound a lady.”

And yet, she’d downed Jaime Lannister, one of the best swordsmen in the kingdom. And he certainly hadn’t let her win.

Not only had he not let her win, but he’d accepted his defeat with the utmost grace.

Ser Rodryk was jealous, she reminded herself. He was a good fighter, a quick swordsmen, and yet… he was just as jealous as the rest of them. The anger seeped out of Brienne, slowly and suddenly, till she was left with nothing but a cool calm.

“You know that’s a lie,” she said, attaching her saddle bag to her horse. “And they know that’s a lie.” She hopped onto her horse in one quick, fluid motion and seated high above him, gave Ser Rodryk a sharp smile. “Maybe, one day, one of you will be man enough to admit it.”

She didn't wait for his response. Her horse kicked up dust and then she was riding. Away from the men. Away from the campsite. Away from it all. 

***

Brienne didn’t bother to make conversation with the knights for the rest of the trip. She rode ahead of the rest of them, feeling the wind whip at her hair and her clothes. They only stopped once, for lunch, and even then, Brienne again ate in perfect silence.

Thankfully, this time, none of them bothered her.

They reached the gates of King’s Landing just before dusk, and then, there was nothing to do but wait for the rest of the carriages to arrive.

Brienne had never been to King’s Landing before. She’d been around Westeros a little, but she’d never had any reason to visit the capital. Now, she understood why no one had pushed her to go. From the minute she stepped into the city, she was hit with the smell of sewage, of illness and unwashed clothes. She and the other knights rode through the cobblestoned streets, and Brienne looked around, equal parts disgusted and amazed. The entire path to the Red Keep seemed to be flanked by large brick walls with holes in it - doorways to where the people of Flea Bottom resided. Peering out from these walls, she saw emaciated children, women with hollow eyes and men with scars decorating their bodies. In the doorway of one makeshift home, a little girl stared at her with wide, watery eyes. Brienne felt a twinge of sadness in her heart.

This was the great capital of Westeros? This dreary, depressing place? She glanced up at the Red Keep, the imposing figure of red brick puncturing the clouds. She’d heard stories and songs about the wealth of the people of King’s Landing, the dresses and the dances and the feasts. She’d never heard stories about the poverty and the filth and the smell. 

They stopped their horses outside the gates of the Red Keep, dismounted, and then waited at attention for the carriages. She could feel the glares from the other knights as they waited, but she ignored them. It was easier to ignore them in King’s Landing, where everything was strange and new. What would the almost-queen be like, she wondered. She’d seen Robert once, briefly. He’d come to visit Riverrun. They had not been introduced and had not spoken, but she had overheard a few of his conversations, and some of the maids had whispered about his frequent visits to the nearby brothels. He was handsome and sure of himself and strong, and he’d struck Brienne as a complete ass.

But the queen… she was a mystery. Brienne had heard the Lannister twins looked almost identical, despite the differences of their sex. Would Cersei really resemble her brother? Would she have the same brilliant blonde hair, like filaments of sunshine? Would she have the same swamp-green eyes that glittered with mischief? The same crooked half-smile?

Likely not. But she must be beautiful. Of that, Brienne was sure. But what else? 

She thought again of Cersei’s relationship with Jaime. Since Brienne’s girlhood in Tarth, she’d heard stories, from various sources, about the Lannister twins - Beautiful, deadly and utterly perverted. People had always said the two were involved with each other in a sexual way, but she’d never know what to make of the rumours. People had always spread rumours. It was what people did. When they had nothing to speak about, they spoke lies about other people. And it was politics, after all. The Lannisters were the golden crown of Westeros, and shame and humiliation were the most effective way to bring someone like them to their knees.

It was only when she saw Jaime receive his invite to the royal wedding, when she had seen the way the mirth had gone out of his eyes, the way his face had fallen, the way he looked as though the very earth had crumbled away under his feet and that he was falling into an abyss…. that was when she had known the rumours were true.

Jaime Lannister was devastatingly in love with his sister.

His excessive drinking after the fact had only proven it. Gods, Brienne was a complete fool. How could she have ever believed - even for the brief moment that she did - that he was flirting with her that day they had been locked in the closet? How could she have allowed herself to hope that he actually wanted to kiss her that night on the ramparts?

Idiot. _Idiot._

Who was she compared to Cersei Lannister, the woman who had so many men falling to their knees before her? The Golden Queen of Westeros? 

Brienne was soon to find out for herself just how remarkable the almost-queen Cersei was, and how plain and hideous Brienne seemed beside her. She tried to feel excitement, anticipation at the prospect of feasting with royalty, but for some reason all she felt was anxiety and dread. 

The crack of wheels against the cobblestones made her start out of her reverie. She stood at attention as the carriages rumbled to a stop outside the palace.

Brienne helped Lady Catelyn out of the carriage, and then stood behind her, ready to enter the Red Keep for the first time. From one of the carriages Jaime Lannister emerged, all long limbs and blonde scruff, his hair shining brilliantly in the sun. Lady Lysa followed, her face flushed and eyes wild. Brienne averted her gaze, though her stomach was twisting uncomfortably, and tried to focus instead on what awaited her inside.

She could not. She glanced again at Jaime, but he was looking past her, at the enormity of the Red Keep, his eyes vacant and haunted. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm going on vacation for the next two weeks, so I won't be posting for a bit. I'm sorry about that. I tried to make this chapter as long as possible to tide you over, but I don't think it ended up being that long. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

**SEVEN.**

The first thing that Jaime noticed when he saw Cersei, standing with the other women of the court off to the side of the throne, was that she had cut her hair. Ever since they were young, she had kept her hair long, sleek blonde curls down to her waist. Now, they barely brushed her shoulders.

He was struck by how alike they looked. Her hair was still longer than his, and yet, without her cascading curls, her other features were on stark display - the sharp line of her jaw, her long neck, and her protruding collarbone. She looked like a fragile version of his own reflection.

For some reason, the thought made his throat constrict.

He only tore his eyes away from her when Tywin walked up to them. Their father looked regal and unusually grand in his peacock blue silks. A sash of gold around his waist and the rings on his fingers served as the only indication that he was a Golden Lannister.

Tywin grunted at Jaime, gave Tyrion a disdainful glance and then told them he would speak with them after the announcements.

“Announcements?” Tyrion whispered, his voice dripping with disdain. “Only our father could turn a wedding celebration into a council meeting.”

Jaime started to laugh, but it died on his lips when Robert Baratheon stepped up onto the raised platform at the front of the room. Robert was an undeniably good-looking man - all taut muscles and sharp features. He had thick dark hair that he wore long and a smile full of wickedness and white teeth. He made a few amusing comments and then launched into a series of bland announcements about when the wedding would happen and what other events would take place over the next few days.

Jaime stood through it, restless and agitated. He tried to focus on what Robert was saying, but it was difficult, particularly since he could feel Cersei’s gaze scorching his skin. He was sure he looked different too. He’d grown a slight beard, had cut his hair shorter and was clad in travelling clothes instead of his Lannister armour. He could feel her distaste - acrid and acidic - from across the room.

He kept his gaze fixed firmly away from Cersei, but he felt an uneasiness within him, like ants burrowing through his bloodstream. He let his gaze wander through the crowd, weaving past blonde up-dos and slicked dark heads until he found Lysa and Cat, standing towards the front. Besides Catelyn was Brienne, unmissable in her bright armour, her almost-white hair shining in the candlelight. She loomed over almost everyone around her. Only the Hound and the Mountain, standing a little away from her, seemed to be taller.

There was something grounding about her solid presence. A reminder that the last few weeks had been real, that they had _happened._ He had gone to Riverrun and he’d _enjoyed_ it. Jaime had torn himself away from Cersei once, and he could do it again.

Brienne was watching Robert, wearing a look of rapt, unflinching attention focused solely on the king and his words. Diligent as always, Jaime thought, amused. It was endearing how seriously she took these things. He watched her from across the room. Noted the little furrow in her brow, the way her thin lips were pressed together.

It was only after a moment that Jaime realised she wasn’t looking at Robert at all. She was looking past him, to where Robert’s two brothers stood, all the way at the back of the platform. Stannis stood at perfect attention, but Renly was leaning against the back wall, mouthing words, irreverently unaware of the formality of everyone else in the room.

Jaime couldn’t make out what he was saying, but as he turned back to Brienne, he saw that her mask of attention had cracked. Her gaze fell to her boots as a smile pricked at the corners of her lips.

Whatever secret conversation they were having across the room, it was for no one else but them. Jaime’s gut lurched.

Applause filled the room as Robert finished with his speech. The maester took Robert’s place as he stepped down, and announced the start of the feast. There was a collective rush of noise as the crowd began to shift and move towards the hall where the food had already been laid out.

“Thank the Gods,” Tyrion said. “I’ll die if I go one more second without a glass of wine.”

He joined the crowd, keeping a safe distance from their father. Jaime followed. He was almost at the doorway when he was grabbed by the shoulders and hauled backwards. Jaime reached for his sword, but he stopped when he turned and saw the giant hand on his shoulder.

He was spun around. The Mountain, his face blank, stared back at Jaime. “Lady Cersei wishes to speak with you.”

Jaime’s gaze darted again to Cersei. She was still in the women’s section, though she was the only one left. Jaime looked around for Tyrion, but he had already disappeared into the writhing crowd.

Jaime was not ready to have a conversation with Cersei, but with the Mountain staring down at him, he knew he had no choice. Slowly, he walked towards her, dragging his feet as he moved. The Mountain opened the small gate leading to the women’s section, and Jaime stepped through.

Cersei was picking at imaginary lint on her dress, looking for all the world the Queen she was to be.

“You cut your hair,” she said, as a greeting.

He nodded, averting his gaze from her.

“And you grew your beard,” she continued, her tone laced with revulsion.

“I’ll shave it,” he said, quickly.

“See that you do. You are the heir of Casterly Rock. You have to look presentable.”

He had trimmed his beard that very morning, but he nodded. “I’ll do it as soon as possible.”

“Look at me,” she instructed.

He turned towards her. She was watching him, her expression tight.“I’m still waiting.” Her voice was crisp, authoritative.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Waiting for what?”

“Your apology.”

“My… _excuse me_?”

“You went off to Riverrun. With our _little brother._ ”

“And you went off to King’s Landing to be wed. What exactly is the difference?”

“I’m to be the queen. You only went to Riverrun to spite me.”

It was the truth, and yet the ire filled Jaime’s veins anyway. “So I was just meant to sit at Casterly Rock, pining for you like a jilted lover?”

“You were certainly not meant to go to Riverrun and lock yourself in closets with oafish women.”

It was like someone had knocked him in the jaw. Jaime stared at her, stunned. He opened his mouth and then shut it. When he finally spoke, his voice was faint. “Who told you about that?”

“Varys has spies everywhere,” she said, icily.

“You were…,” he let out a small grunt of disbelief. “You were _spying_ on me?”

“I was keeping an eye on you. Because I care about you.”

His laugh was harsh and brittle. “Of course. You care so _very_ deeply for me that you didn’t want me to accompany you to King’s Landing.”

“Precisely. You know what Robert would do to you if he knew about us.”

Jaime shook his head. Now that the shock had worn off, the fury was slowly filling him again. “My life is none of your concern, Cersei.”

“Of course it is.”

“If I’m not going to join the Kingsguard then I think it’s high time I start thinking about marriage. Going to Riverrun was an attempt at figuring out the rest of my life. Like _you_ are doing with yours.”

“You are so hateful,” she spat. “Once Lysa discovers that about you, it’ll be too late for the both of you. Your marriage will be bitter and unhappy.”

“The only one who looks bitter and unhappy is you,” he shot back.

She froze then, her lips parting slightly. Her lovely green eyes widened and then narrowed. She pressed her mouth into a thin line and gave him a cold look. For a second, they stayed like that - neither of them willing to back down. Then, she turned away, swallowing hard.

When Cersei spoke again, her voice was light. “Robert is not the man I thought he was.”

It was not a comfort. Now that the anger was ebbing, Jaime felt a heaviness growing in him, weighing his every limb. “So now that he’s not everything you believed he was, everything has changed?”

“I was wrong.” She turned to him, her eyes growing wide. Her skin was as flawless as always - soft and smooth and unblemished. The opposite, he thought, of Brienne's. “I want you here with me, Jaime. You belong here. By my side.” 

“So it’s no longer a concern that Robert might kill me?”

Her nostrils flared. “We’ll keep it a secret. Seven hells. You are so unbelievably stupid.”

Jaime felt the familiar curdling in his gut, but he shook his head, his jaw set. “You can’t just decide these things." 

“I’m admitting I was wrong. Aren’t I allowed to make mistakes?” She stood then. He didn’t move, didn’t back away. She took a step towards him and gently brushed her hand across his cheek. When she spoke next, her voice was gentle. “I know you want the same.”

He felt his heart flutter in his chest.

Did he want the same? Her hand was warm, soft, familiar. He knew that hand better than he knew his own. She trailed her fingers down his neck and then to his chest.

Jaime stepped back. He couldn’t look at her.

“I have to go for dinner,” he said.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already leaving, shutting the small gate behind him with with a resounding click.

***

Jaime found Brienne sitting with the rest of the Riverrun party. Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure, their father and uncle were all sitting with the Baratheons, so her company mostly consisted of the knights and squires. She was sitting a little away from the rest of them, an empty seat on the bench across from her.

Jaime almost tripped over his own feet in order to take the seat before any more of the knights joined the table.

Brienne looked up, surprised to see him. “Ser Jaime,” she said, her eyes growing wide. She really had such astonishing eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him if he wasn’t careful, he could drown in them.

“Lady Brienne,” he said, smiling at her.

“I thought you would be sitting with the rest of your family.” Her eyes darted to the front of the room, where Robert was pulling out a chair for Cersei to sit.

Jaime gave a shrug, pulling the pitcher of wine towards him. He ignored the agitation he was still feeling, the jittery energy in his bones. “Tyrion is sitting wherever he pleases, and I intend to do the same.”

She continued to watch him, astounded, as he poured himself a glass. He nodded at the food on her plate. “Are you planning on eating that?”

She glanced down at it, but didn’t make a move to pick up her fork. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”

Jaime took a large gulp of his wine. He could hardly fault her. He couldn't muster the will to eat either. He glanced at Cersei, then returned his gaze to the goblet before him. Brienne’s eyes darted to the front of the room, following the path his gaze had taken.

Brienne licked her lips. “The queen is very beautiful.”

Jaime grimaced. “She’s not the queen yet.”

Brienne’s eyes returned to him, and he felt the warmth of her gaze on his skin. It was a comforting gaze, a soft one. It was unusual coming from her, and it made Jaime’s throat grow tight.

They sat in silence for a long moment before she spoke, her voice careful and quiet. “How was your journey, Ser Jaime?”

He liked the way his name sounded on her tongue. It sounded different from the way most people said it. When she spoke his name, it felt like she was truly speaking to him. She wasn’t talking to the Kingslayer, or Jaime Lannister the heir of Casterly Rock, or Tywin Lannister’s son. She was just talking to him.

Jaime. Just Jaime.

“Unbearable,” he said.

A small smile appeared on her lips. It was not the reaction he was expecting. He had expected her to admonish him, to give him another lecture about why it was ungentlemanly to speak of travelling with Lady Lysa that way. He hadn’t expected a smile, _that_ smile - soft and warm, like a summer breeze. The restlessness in him stilled.

“I have never much enjoyed her company either,” she admitted, and it came out as a whisper. 

It was a secret for just the two of them. A secret between her and Jaime, that Renly Baratheon was not a part of. Jaime smiled and he could feel his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“A scandalous confession,” he said, and his voice was teasing.

She frowned. “It is for your ears only.”

Jaime grinned wider, wickedness shining in his eyes. “Of course.”

“I am serious,” she hissed.

“I shall not tell a soul.” His voice was still teasing, and her scowl deepened.

“I am only telling you because I trust you,” she said. 

The words struck the playful grin from his face.

She trusted him.

_Him._ The Kingslayer. The Oathbreaker. The Man without Honour.

Brienne of Tarth, the woman who valued loyalty and honour above all else trusted _him._

Jaime blinked. And then he blinked again. Without realising it, his throat had closed up and his eyes had gone dewy. Brienne looked up at him, clearly expecting a snarky reaction, but when she saw him, her expression went slack.

“Ser Jaime…?” she looked concerned. “Are you-?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, bringing his goblet back to his lips. His voice sounded hoarse and strange to his own ears. He tried to slot his regular expression back in place - the one of nonchalance, of insouciance - but he wasn't sure it was working. 

"Was it something I said?" 

He shook his head. Then he lifted his eyes, and met her gaze. Something sizzled through him. “I hope you know... I shall never betray your trust, Brienne.”

Her lips parted. He wondered if he had ever called her by just her given name before. Jaime look a large gulp of the wine. It was sour on his tongue.

“Ser Jaime, are yo-”

She was cut short when a man sat down heavily beside her, dropping his plate to the wood with a clank. Jaime jerked, shocked out of the strange sentiment that had gripped him.

Ser Rodryk was dressed in fine silks. His hair was oiled and he smelled of rose petals. He had his entire body turned towards Brienne. “Brienne,” he said.

Brienne leaned back, clearly shocked by his presence. So, this rendezvous wasn’t planned. Jaime glanced between the two of them, feeling annoyance and confusion twisting their way inside him. 

Rodryk didn’t seem to notice Jaime. He leaned towards Brienne, bowing his head slightly. “I wanted to apologise. For before. I thought about what you said, and you were in the right. Ser Varic was out of line.”

Brienne looked bewildered. Failed by her words, she simply nodded in acknowledgement of his apology.

“May I join you for dinner?” he asked.

This was an utterly ridiculous question, given that the people not associated with the royal family could sit wherever they pleased, provided it was at the back of the hall. It was _also_ ridiculous given the fact that he had already seated himself down beside her.

Brienne darted a quick glance at Jaime, and then nodded at Ser Rodryk. He smiled, a smile that stretched too wide across his face, and then began tucking into his meal.

He had yet to acknowledge Jaime’s presence at all. Jaime truly did not care in the least bit for him or his company.

Jaime shot Brienne a questioning glance, wondering about the reason behind Ser Rodryk’s apology, but she ignored him, focusing her attention on her own food.

“Ser Rodryk,” Jaime said.

Ser Rodryk turned to look at Jaime then, finally, with an exaggerated look of surprise on his face. It seemed Brienne wasn't the only person he was resentful of for beating him in the tournament. “Ser Jaime,” he said. “I had assumed you would be sitting with your sister.”

“I prefer to sit at the back of the room,” he said, plastering on a smile. “Makes for an easy getaway.”

Ser Rodryk’s presence felt too much. He was a loud man, a big man. Everything about him was too overpowering. Jaime didn’t like it.

“Was there any trouble on your journey over here?” Jaime asked, keeping his voice airy. He glanced between the two of them again, his question obvious. 

Brienne sent him a glare, but Jaime ignored it. His eyes were fixed on Rodryk.

Ser Rodryk returned his smile. “I made a comment that was very unbecoming of a man of my stature.” Jaime had to keep from curling his lip. “I came here to beg for Brienne’s forgiveness.”

He wasn’t calling her _Lady Brienne._ Jaime glanced at her, but she seemed very preoccupied by her meal all of a sudden. Still, Jaime did not miss the faint blush on her cheeks. His teeth clanked against his goblet, painfully.

“Ah,” Jaime said.

Ser Rodryk turned back to Brienne, his entire body facing her. The table between Jaime and her suddenly felt far too vast.

“Who taught you to fight the way you do?” Rodryk asked. “Before you came to Riverrun, of course.”

“My father,” Brienne muttered. She was still looking down into her food. Her voice had the faintest tinge of embarrassment laced through it.

“He did an incredible job of teaching you.”

“Thank you.”

Jaime watched, as Rodryk’s hand snaked across the table and touched Brienne’s elbow. She looked up at him. A moment passed between them. A moment that felt so long, Jaime was gripped by the need to interrupt, to change the topic, but he held back his words. 

Ser Rodryk smiled again. “I truly do admire you. I did not mean what I said about the tournament being biased. You won that event fair and square.”

Brienne’s eyes flashed. Suspicion. Disbelief. Skepticism. Despite how much Jaime wanted Ser Rodryk to leave, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pain. He wished with every fibre of his being that the words he was speaking truly were genuine, and yet something told him they were not.

“Was that ever a question?” Jaime asked, leaning back in his chair. “Were you doubting the authenticity of the tournament?”

Ser Rodryk turned towards Jaime, and his eyes held a complicated look. “No… of course not… it was just…”

“I’ve seen Lady Brienne take down three sellswords in under six minutes. I highly doubt that is a feat you yourself could achieve, Ser Rodryk.”

Rodryk’s face was growing red. Jaime could see it. Could _feel_ it. A part of him thrilled in it. Absolutely bloody revelled in it.

“I am admitting,” Rodryk said, through clenched teeth, “that I was wrong.”

“And that she’s a better fighter than you?” Jaime pushed.

Ser Rodryk’s hand tightened around his fork. Brienne shot Jaime a withering look. 

But the words were pouring out of him, acid and burning. “You’re hardly a true knight if you can’t put aside your ego and admit when someone has bested you.”

Ser Rodryk stood. His chair screeched across the floor, and a few people turned to stare, but Rodryk’s eyes were fixed on Jaime. His entire face was bright red.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne hissed. “I hardly think this is the time to-”

“What does his apology mean to you if he still cannot put aside his pride and admit you’re a better fighter than him?” Jaime demanded. He liked how easily Ser Rodryk flew to anger. It was another thing that added to his overall unpleasantness.

“It hardly concerns me!” Brienne’s eyes were widening, their message to Jaime - to stop, to backtrack - was loud and clear and obvious.

"You're right of course," Jaime said. "It doesn't concern you. It concerns  _him._ " 

There was a slam. Jaime turned back to Ser Rodryk who had his fists on the wooden table, his face alarmingly close to Jaime’s own. Jaime had to resist the urge to reel backwards from his stale breath.

“You are used to getting your way, Lannister,” he sneered. “But you don’t own me.”

He pushed off then, leaving the table. On the other side of Brienne, a few of the knights were sniggering. Brienne’s entire face was bright red.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “He was apologising!”

“That was hardly an apology.”

She shot a quick look at the other knights who were still staring quite unabashedly at them, and then lowered her voice. “It was more than these men have afforded me in years!”

“And that’s alright then?” Jaime asked. He could feel himself growing angry too, though he wasn’t sure why. “You deserve much more than a condescending apology from a supercilious prick.”

Brienne shook her head, agitated, and stood. Jaime followed suit, abandoning his goblet of wine to follow her down the hall.

“Don’t follow me,” she said. “People are spreading rumours about us.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about rumours,” he said. He’d had enough rumours spread about him to fill the White Book. He was done with rumours. He was done with the court, with their politics, with people playing games with those who didn’t deserve it.

They walked out into the corridor, and as soon as the noise of the hall grew muffled, Brienne turned on her heel to face him. Her face was bright red now, her white hair dishevelled due to how many times she had run her fingers through it. She let out a sharp breath through her nose. “I have to spend the rest of the year, until Lady Catelyn’s wedding, with these _supercilious pricks_. My entire _life_ I’ve had to deal with supercilious pricks. Sometimes small gestures like this are all I get. So I take them.”

“You deserve more than-”

“Don’t be so naive!” she spat.

Jaime reared backwards. The shock of the word was like cold water on bare skin. “Naive?!” The idea was absurd. Jaime had seen the worst of the world, had seen the underbelly of politics, had seen people burned down to blackened bones by their own king. He’d never been naive. Not even as a boy.

“You are a lord. A proper lord. You can demand apologies. You can demand respect. I can’t. I’m not a lady and I’m not a knight. I’m nothing. Do you understand? Sometimes just being treated like a human being worthy of getting any apology at all is enough. It _has_ to be enough.”

Jaime stared at her, his mouth going slack. In his chest, something burned, hotter and hotter till it was singeing his throat.

“You’re not nothing,” he said, and his voice cracked.

Brienne looked helpless, lost. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you so intent on defending me? What do you hope to get out of this?”

The answer was there, in his mind, and yet he could not find the words. He did not know them, or could not understand them. He could not translate that feeling in his gut into an answer to her question. So instead, he said the first thing he could think of.

“I’m tired,” he said. “I’m tired of a world where the wicked always get their way.”

“It’s how the world works,” she said.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he replied. “Not if we fight.”

He didn’t tell her that she was the one who taught him that. That she was the one who stood up in the middle of a crowded tavern and took on three sellswords to defend a girl she barely knew, and shook his entire world. 

***

That night, Jaime tossed and turned with dreams of Cersei. He dreamed of sleeping beside her, of her lips, of her hair - soft and smooth - of her sharp features and sharper tongue.

When he woke up, he was still half immersed in his dreams, could still feel the creaminess of her skin on his fingertips. He’d been woken by a loud knocking on his door, and it continued on as he lay in bed for a minute more. He was covered in sweat. It had seeped through his night clothes - dark blotches on the light cloth. It was still hardly light outside, which was why he was surprised when he opened the door to find Tyrion standing there, fully dressed.

“You’re up early,” Jaime said. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smoothen it down.

Tyrion didn’t bother to answer as he barrelled into the room. He planted himself down onto an armchair and looked up expectantly at Jaime.

“I spoke with Varys this morning,” he said.

Jaime felt fatigue settle onto his bones. Tyrion had always liked spending time with the Master of Whisperers, since the days of Aerys's rule. At first, it had just been about getting information, but Jaime was starting to suspect Tyrion had grown to genuinely enjoy the eunuch's company. Jaime, for his part, had always thought Varys was far too reticent to be trusted.

He had to hold back a sigh. “And?” 

“Cersei has arranged to have a picnic with Lysa.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. Cersei was not the ‘picnic’ type. What she wanted was to get Lysa alone to speak to her about Jaime.

“Well? What am I meant to do about it?” Jaime asked, falling down into the chair opposite Tyrion.

Tyrion gave him a look of skepticism. "She does not know that you despise Lysa. If she did, she wouldn’t bother trying to manipulate her.”

Jaime gave a noncommittal shrug. He ran his fingers through his hair again.

“Jaime,” Tyrion said, leaning forward in his chair. “What did you tell Cersei when you spoke to her yesterday?”

Jaime sighed. “She wants me to move to King’s Landing.”

Tyrion’s expression didn’t change, but Jaime could see his body tense. This was what he had warned Jaime about. This was what he had been scared would happen all along. “Why?”

“I suppose Robert is not the demigod she envisioned he was.”

Tyrion gave him a smirk, but it was half-hearted. His eyes was searching Jaime’s. “You said no to her?”

“I am tired of her deciding what I should or should not do with my life,” Jaime said. A bitterness had seeped into his voice. Tyrion’s expression still hadn’t changed. Jaime swallowed. He rubbed his cheek. He’d shaved before he slept, and already his cheeks were covered in a thin layer of stubble. He’d have to shave again. “But… she has… this hold on me.”

“I know,” Tyrion said. Jaime could hear the tinge of sadness in his voice when he said the words.

Jaime hated the pity, but the words were out there now. All he could do was explain. “I can’t say no to her. But… I want to. I want to say no.”

“Then say no, Jaime," Tyrion said. He sounded almost pleading. 

“It’s not that easy,” Jaime said, irritably. “What am I supposed to do? Avoid her forever? No… we shall cross paths soon, and then she will convince me I was wrong and beg me to stay and I will be too weak to refuse.”

Tyrion’s gaze darted away, towards the windows. “You know her. You know that she’s planning something. Maybe you can… prepare yourself.”

Maybe. But Jaime knew what she was capable of. And he knew that he was capable of much less. He could not even grow a beard if she disapproved of him having one. His life wasn’t his own. It never had been.

“Why?” Tyrion asked, suddenly.

Jaime looked up, frowning. “Why, what?”

“Why does she have this hold on you?”

It was a question Jaime had asked himself a hundred times before. “I don’t know,” he said.

But he did know. From the minute he was born, he'd belonged to Cersei. He had always been Cersei’s. Who was he without her?

He thought again of what he’d told Brienne the night before, about fighting for what was right. What a hypocrite he was to tell her to fight for justice when he could barely fight for the right to live his own damn life.

As though Tyrion could read his mind, he said, "Lady Brienne." 

Jaime’s head jerked up. “What about her?”

“Varys mentioned her.” Tyrion wrung his hands in his lap, golden rings glittering on his fingers. “He said that Cersei is having her watched.”

“What?!" Jaime shook his head. "That doesn't... Why would she do that?”

Tyrion gave him a pointed look, but Jaime could not gather what it was supposed to be mean. "She heard that you and her left the feast together yesterday.”

“Why is that reason to send spies after her?” Jaime demanded.

“Varys did not know,” Tyrion looked at Jaime through his eyelashes. “But I wanted to warn you. We both know she does not like to share you. I have been the only threat to your relationship with her that she has not been able to flick away, like an ant. If she deems Lady Brienne a problem, she will go after her.”

Jaime’s throat felt dry. Bile was rising up in his throat. “What can I do?”

“For now?” Tyrion said. “Be careful.”

"What does that mean?" Jaime asked, and his voice came out irritable again. 

He knew what it meant, of course. He wasn't as stupid as the rest of his family believed. He just didn't want to accept what it meant. He couldn't accept it. He couldn't even bear the thought of it. But he couldn't admit that out loud. He couldn't say the words. 

He waited for Tyrion to speak, hoping with every fibre of his being that he wasn't going to say what Jaime thought he was going to say. 

"It means," Tyrion said. "That you are going to have to stay far away from Lady Brienne." 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm so terribly sorry for the long delay between chapters. These past two months have been absolutely insane, and I barely had time to breathe between the hundreds of things that kept cropping up. But I'm back now and I hope to go back to posting regular updates. Thanks to everyone who kept support for this story going even though I've been shit about updating ❤

**PART TWO**

**EIGHT.**

Cersei had hardly spent ten minutes in Lysa Tully’s company before she realised that the woman was utterly unbearable.Unfortunately by that point, it was too late for her to cancel the picnic.

Cersei hated picnics to begin with. Sitting on the hard earth, having to swat away insects and falling leaves, finding dust in her mashed potatoes? It was horrendous. She didn’t understand people who actually _enjoyed_ the experience.

But there was something almost romantic about a picnic. About being out in the open, the illusion of being free. It was what she wanted Lysa to feel - like she was away from the confines of the Red Keep, away from the expectations of their families and the pressures of the court. If Lysa felt free, then Cersei could pull out filaments of information from her, one by one.

From the very minute Lysa had seated herself on the woven blanket, however, she had launched into a tale about some boy called Petyr Baelish and his thoughts on the unnecessary nature of the Night’s Watch, and Cersei had realised that regardless of Lysa’s feelings about Jaime, Jaime would never - _could never_ \- want this woman.

It made the entire afternoon seem like an utter bloody waste of time.

Cersei sucked on a strawberry as Lysa rambled on, until it was frankly too much to take, and then she spoke, her voice as sweet as the fruit juice that stained her lips.

“Tell me Lady Lysa, do you fancy my brother?”

Lysa stopped, her mouth hanging slightly open in surprise. Varys had told Cersei that Lysa was known for being quite forthcoming with her feelings. Apparently, she hadn’t expected Cersei to be the same.

Lysa took a moment to compose herself, her face settling back into the pleasant smile it wore before. “I admire him.”

Cersei scoffed and Lysa’s brow furrowed. “Come on Lysa, we’re to be _family._ Surely you can confide in me.”

Lysa’s eyes narrowed and Cersei wondered if she knew, if she could hear in her tone that Cersei was jealous, that she wanted to know if Lysa had kissed Jaime’s lips, if she’d touched his skin, if she’d run her fingers through his hair.

Jaime wouldn’t. Not with _her._

Lysa smiled, sickly sweet, and Cersei was filled with a surge of pure, white hatred for her. Yet, she smiled back, her cheeks hurting with the effort.

“Of course I do, your grace.” Lysa spoke like a little girl. It made Cersei want to slap her.

“I’m not the queen yet,” Cersei muttered, taking a large gulp of her wine.

Lysa continued, as if she hadn’t heard her. “But unfortunately, I do not believe he feels the same way.”

Cersei looked up then, surprised. She hadn’t expected Lysa to admit this. Why would she admit it? Was she interested in making herself look pathetic, undesirable? What was she playing at?

Lysa levelled a gaze at her, eyes wide and bulging. Cersei knew she was trying to look pleading, helpless, but all she managed to do was sort of resemble an ill horse.“Would you help me?”

Cersei choked on her wine. “I’m sorry?”

“I care about your brother deeply, Lady Cersei. And our fathers seem keen on the match. If only you could help me…”

“How am I meant to do that?” Cersei spat. She hadn’t intended for there to be ire in her voice, but it came out anyway, sharp as a blade.

Lysa shot a look towards the guards standing nearby, their backs to them as they guarded the site, then lowered her voice. “What does he like? What does he dislike? I would like to know all about Ser Jaime that I possibly can.”

She truly believed she could seduce him. Cersei had to hold back a laugh. The very audacity of the woman. Cersei unclenched her jaw. “I’m afraid if you want to know what Jaime likes and dislikes, you will have to find out from him yourself.”

Lysa sat back, unimpressed. She crossed her arms tightly about her bosom, light blue eyes burning into Cersei’s. “Is there a… _reason_ that you aren’t helping me?”

What an absolute whore. Cersei would have her killed on the spot if she could.

“Is there a reason you cannot engage him yourself?” Cersei asked, crisply. “Or is it because you would prefer to attempt to trick him into falling for you?”

Lysa pursed her lips. There was something huffy about her mannerisms, like she was a small child being denied her lemon tarts. “Suit yourself. I have other methods to find out what I need to.”

Cersei raised her eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Of course.” Lysa smiled then, and it was cloying, sickly sweet. Cersei wanted to gag.

Enough was enough. Manipulation was Cersei’s game. If this annoying woman wasn’t going to accept that Jaime would never be hers, then it was Cersei’s duty to ensure she learned what came to those who tried to take things that belonged to Cersei Lannister.

“I would advise you,” Cersei said, taking a small sip of her wine, “to tell your father that you do not wish to go through with this marriage. I think that would be best for all of us involved.”

“Lady Cersei,” Lysa said, her eyes going wide. “I mean no insult, but you are not _involved_. What Ser Jaime and I have has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

Cersei’s teeth clanked against her goblet. The rage within her was growing thicker by the minute. It was consuming her, blinding her. “He’s my brother.”

Lysa shrugged. “And once he’s my husband, he will be mine and only mine.” 

Cersei put down her empty goblet and looked up at Lysa. Lysa looked back, defiant. For a moment, neither of them said a word. Neither of them were willing to tear their eyes away from the other. Cersei knew that neither of them would back down.

Slowly, she tucked a strand of curls behind her ear, her eyes boring a hole into Lysa’s skin. “ _If_ he becomes your husband,” she said, sweetly.

 

***

It took two days for Brienne to realise that Jaime was avoiding her.

At first, she’d just assumed that he was busy, but by the second day, it became apparent that their infrequent meetings were on purpose.

He was likely still fuming about the fight they’d had over Ser Rodryk. It wasn’t _her_ fault that Jaime couldn’t understand her side. It wasn’t _her_ fault that he was so bloody idealistic that he didn’t realise that any apology was better than no apology at all.

But still, she hadn’t thought she’d angered him _that_ much. He had, after all, put up with a lot from her in the past. He’d never been so insulted that he’d gone out of his way to stay _away_ from her.

And yet, stay away from her he did. He avoided her at meal times, and he purposely sat far away from her at the tourney. But it was only during the nighttime festivities, when she sat in the empty seat next to him and he got up and moved, that she realised he was upset with her.

She tried to brush it off, tried to offer the jugglers and magicians her full attention, but her mind kept returning to it - to the way he had avoided her eye, the way he hadn’t said a word, the way he stood and moved and kept his gaze angled stubbornly away from her.

As much as she tried not to think about it, she couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in her gut and the burning sensation in her chest. As much as she tried not to think about it, she couldn’t stop her heart from feeling like it was heavy between her ribs.

There was a screech, wood against the floor, and she looked up to see Ser Rodyk. He nodded at the chair beside her, that he’d pulled forward.

“May I?”

For a stunned moment, she believed he had come to ask if he could take the chair, if he could move it to the other end of the room where he could sit with Ser Varic and the other knights of Riverrun. But when Brienne gave a sharp, quick nod, he simply lowered himself down into the chair next to her and gave her a thin smile.

“Are you enjoying the show?”

She avoided his eye, giving a quick nod in agreement. He smirked, eyes alight.

“Did you know,” he said, his voice low. “When I was a boy I would have given anything to join a travelling circus.”

Brienne had no idea what was happening. For Ser Rodryk to apologise was one thing - perhaps guilt had made him do it, or a fellow knight had coerced him - but for him to hang around her when he didn’t have to? For him to take a seat beside her when even Jaime Lannister wouldn’t? What was he playing at?

“I would have fit in well with a travelling circus,” she muttered, her eyes trained on her boots. “I likely would have been the perfect addition to their collection of oddities.”

She was surprised then, by the sound of a laugh - a deep, hoarse thing. She didn’t believe it was coming from Ser Rodryk’s mouth until she looked up to see his eyes crinkled with mirth.

“Why? Because you’re tall?” he asked. “I’ll admit you are the tallest woman I’ve seen but there is nothing about you that screams odd.”

Despite herself, Brienne snorted.

“I am being true, my lady,” Rodryk pressed. “If I have ever made it seem otherwise, it was only because I didn’t want to admit to myself how taken I was with you.”

A rush of warmth ran over Brienne’s skin. She felt her cheeks growing hot, almost uncomfortably so. She kept her eyes on the jugglers and tried to find words, but her tongue had grown dry.

“If you wish to humiliate me for the incident at the campsite,” Brienne said, her voice terse, “this is a terribly low way to do it.”

Ser Rodryk made a noise of dissent in the back of his throat.

“My lady…” his voice trailed off. He cleared his throat, and began again. “Is this because of what Ser Jaime said the other day? I promise you, the argument I had with him that day was purely in relation to my own personal distaste for the Lannisters.”

Brienne’s eyes darted to where Jaime was sitting. For a second, he turned and their eyes met, but then both of them hurriedly turned their attentions back to the act on the stage. Brienne felt another rush of warmth on her cheeks, except this time it pooled in the base of her gut as well.

“Perhaps this isn’t the place to air our grievances about the Lannisters,” Brienne said, sharply.

Ser Rodryk nodded. “You’re right, of course.” He looked down into his lap where his gloved hands lay entwined together. He seemed to be chewing on some words, trying to find the right thing to say. “Brienne…”

A woman sitting in front of them turned around and shushed them, loudly and impertinently. Ser Rodryk blustered out several apologies and then fell silent, though his eyes returned to Brienne over and over again over the course of the show.

Brienne, for her part, kept her eyes fixed on the stage, and stood as soon as the show was over, eager to escape.

She wasn’t so lucky. She never was.

At the entrance to the hall, Brienne was stopped by a large man. He was half-giant almost, with hands as large as dinner plates. He loomed over Brienne and she felt an eerie uneasiness. It wasn’t often that she was made to feel short.

She knew this man. This was the Mountain.

The Mountain was stoic, his expression revealing nothing at all. “The queen-to-be wishes to speak with you.”

The blood in her veins went instantly cold. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “What for?”

It sounded obnoxious. Rude. Brienne blushed a deep crimson, and then hastily added. “Sorry… I mean… what is this regarding?"

The Mountain didn’t respond. He stared down at her for a moment longer, expression blank, and then turned on his heel and began walking. Though every cell in her body was singing for her to dart away in the other direction, Brienne forced herself to follow.


	9. Chapter 9

**NINE.**

The Mountain led Brienne through several hallways, past half-asleep guards and laughing children, up winding staircases. The door to Cersei’s chambers was a burnished gold and had a shiny knocker in the shape of a roaring lion. The Mountain ignored it in favour of banging a great fist against the door.

“Come in.”

Just her voice made Brienne’s insides shrivel.

The Mountain pushed the door open and then turned to look at her. He made no movement or gesture, and Brienne assumed this was perhaps her cue to go inside. She took a few tentative steps inside the room, and The Mountain let the door swing shut with a thump behind her.

Cersei was sitting on a velvet chair, her legs on a golden footstool and a glass of wine in her hand. She was undeniably beautiful; high cheekbones and a slender waist and a sharp jawline. Her golden curls hung about her shoulders. She looked like a goddess in an oil painting. Next to her, Brienne felt like a sack of potatoes, or perhaps a particularly badly made scarecrow.

Cersei gave her a cool once-over and then gestured towards the chair across from where she sat.

“Lady Brienne,” she said, and her voice sounded far away, like she was only half-present in the room. “Please sit.”

Brienne gave a short, awkward bow and then settled down on the seat.

It was unnerving how much Cersei and Jaime looked alike. She had the same piercing green eyes, the same wry smile, the same shade of blonde hair. Brienne found that her breath was sticking in her throat. She reminded herself, for the umpteenth time in so many minutes, that she’d done nothing to warrant Cersei’s wrath. Cersei likely knew many things that were happening in the kingdom, but she could not have read the thoughts in Brienne’s head, and that was the only place Brienne held anything incriminating.

Cersei continued to sit in an aloof silence, which was as uncomfortable as it was strange. Brienne folded her hands in her lap, waiting, though every second that passed was utter agony. Eventually, she broke first, clearing her throat and dropping her gaze.

“You wished to speak with me, Lady Cersei?”

Cersei smirked, taking a sip of her wine. Her eyes roved up and down Brienne’s form again. Her entire demeanour was unabashed, unapologetic. A queen-to-be through and through, Brienne thought.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Lady Brienne,” Cersei said, her voice coming out low but sweet. She gestured at a tray by her elbow. “Would you like a drink?”

“I’m fine, my lady,” Brienne said. She was having a hard time meeting Cersei’s eye. “Can I be of some assistance to you?”

“I don’t know,” Cersei said, her tone growing impatient, almost bored. “Can you?”

Brienne blinked. She reminded herself again that Cersei did not know her thoughts. She did not know that Brienne had replayed the memory of Jaime running his thumbs over her knuckles more times than she could count. She did not know about their night on the ramparts, when Brienne got to see Jaime under the light of the stars, his eyes glittering and bright, his lips just a breath away from her own.

“I’m sorry, my lady, I do no-”

Cersei waved off the rest of the sentence, taking another deep sip of her wine. “I’ve heard a lot about your abilities with a sword.”

When The Mountain had told Brienne to follow him, she hadn’t known what to expect. But whatever it was that she suspected Cersei wanted to speak about, this was not it.

Cersei must have seen the surprise on her face, because her eyebrows went up. “You’re surprised?”

“I just… I mean…” She was stuttering. She felt a flush rise on her cheeks. “I am… confused.”

“Why?”

Brienne rubbed at the back of her hand. She didn’t know whether Cersei was playing games or whether she was genuinely curious. Her voice was deceptively innocent.

“I didn’t think you would have heard about that. About me.”

Cersei smiled, and she looked for all the world like a viper about to strike. “I take an interest in things that are…” her eyes hovered over Brienne again, “different.” There was a zephyr of silence, and then Cersei smiled again, a pinched lipped smile this time. “A woman so proficient at fighting. I think that is truly incredible.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Would you like to join the Kingsguard?”

The question was asked so off-handedly, so nonchalantly, that it took a moment for Brienne to understand what she’d said. As the words sunk in, however, her eyes grew wide. Was this a joke? Would Cersei really have called her into her chambers for a prank? “Oh,” she breathed. "Oh... I..." She couldn't speak. She could barely breathe. 

Cersei watched her, lips twisted in amusement. “Well?” 

“I’ve never fought in a battle before, my lady,” Brienne said, the words tumbling out of her in a haste. “I’ve only ever fought in tourneys.”

“And?” Cersei asked, raising an eyebrow.

The words were out before she could stop herself. “I’m a woman.”

“There’s no rule that says women can’t be knights,” Cersei said, waving a hand in the air. Her words were so matter-of-fact that it almost seemed as though the very idea wasn’t utterly absurd. Like all the years Brienne had been laughed at and mocked and jeered at by men with sour breath and patchy facial hair for saying she wanted to be a knight had never existed to begin with.

A _knight._

“Your lady Catelyn tells me that you’ve bested all her knights. I’ve never heard of a woman - a lady, at that - who could down such fine knights with the sword.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “It would be an honour to have the first female knight in my Kingsguard.”

The lump in Brienne’s throat was growing painful. The tears were coming now, fast and ecstatic. She blinked them back. How pathetic would she look if she started crying right now? Lady Cersei would instantly regret her decision to appoint a ‘weak, emotional’ woman to the Kingsguard. Brienne took a deep breath, steadying herself. Her mind was screaming her acceptance, but she knew her honour bade her to make appropriate arrangements first. 

“I would have to speak to Lady Catelyn before I accept.” The words hurt as they came out, and yet her voice did not shake.

“Of course. You have pledged yourself to her service.” Cersei leaned back against the pillows. “I hope I will have your answer in the next few days.”

Brienne nodded and then stood, feeling awkward in the opulent room, feeling raw under the intensity of Cersei’s gaze. “Thank you, my lady. I’m very… this i-”

Cersei waved her arm. A dismissal.

Brienne gave a short bow - she’d never liked the curtsey - and walked over to the door of the room. She waited a moment, forcing her breathing to slow, then pushed it open. She’d been expecting to see The Mountain, or perhaps some Lannister guards on duty, but instead she was met by the surprised face of a man, frozen in the middle of the corridor.

Ser Jaime.

Despite herself, Brienne’s breathing quickened again.

He looked up and down the hallway, as though confused, as though to ensure he was in the correct place. Brienne straightened her back, ready to walk away from him, but he spoke, holding her in place.

“What are you doing here?”

Brienne stiffened her lip and turned her gaze away from him. “Lady Cersei wished to speak with me.”

“About what?” he demanded.

His tone was infuriating. Brienne clenched her jaw. “A personal matter.”

Jaime let out a scoff, and then without warning, grabbed Brienne’s arm and dragged her away from Cersei’s door.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asked, aghast.

“What was she asking you?” Jaime’s voice was unshakeable, serious. Brienne was surprised by the intensity of his tone.

Still, she couldn’t prevent the jab from coming to her lips. “My apologies, Ser Jaime. It’s incredibly hard to keep track. Are we on speaking terms again?”

Jaime reared backwards, but his fingers remained wrapped around her forearm. “My lady, I…”

Brienne snatched her arm from his grip. “Spare me,” she said, and there was acid in her voice. “I do not need to know your business.”

She turned on her heel but Jaime followed close behind as she marched down the corridor.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice low. “She’s… Cersei is… I do not know what she spoke to you about, but you have to know that sh-”

“What she spoke to me about is none of your concern.”

“Brienne.” Her name on his lips sent a shiver through her, but she kept her eyes fixed ahead, even as her betraying legs slowed down their pace. “Cersei is dangerous. Especially to people close to me.”

She stopped then, dead in her tracks. For a moment she stood there, stock still, like a statue. Then she turned to face him. “Close to you?” she asked, her voice rising to a higher pitch in disbelief. “Ser Jaime, our paths have crossed. Yes, I concede that. But with all due respect, you and I are of different worlds. I am not close to you. I never shall be.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t change, but she saw the clenching of his jaw, heard the stiffness in his voice when he spoke next. “Lady Brienne, regardless of your feelings towards me, I do not wish to see you hurt.”

Brienne swallowed, hard. “The only one who has been hurting me is you.”

Something flickered in Jaime’s eyes. “Brienne…”

She was almost relieved when he was interrupted by the sound of thumping footsteps. They turned to see The Mountain walking down the corridor, his eyes fixed on them. Brienne didn’t want to wait for him to reach her. Before Jaime could say anything more, she turned on her heel and marched away. 

This time, he did not follow.

It wasn’t until she reached her room and Jaime’s words had stopped roaring through her mind, when Cersei’s words came back to her.

She hadn’t said she wanted Brienne to join Robert’s Kingsguard at all. Cersei had called it ‘ _M_ _y_ Kingsguard.’

***

Jaime stormed into Cersei’s room with an audible banging of the door. His boots that had been loud against the wooden floor of the hallways muffled as he marched across the lush carpets to where Cersei sat, feet up on a footstool.

He was glad The Mountain hadn’t followed him in. He didn’t want anyone around to witness what he was about to do.

Anger and frustration pulsed through him, but below it all, a deep ebbing pain. Brienne's words reverberated over and over again in his mind -  _ The only one who has been hurting me is you.  _

Jaime wanted to scream. 

“What in Seven Hells are you doing?” he asked. He’d meant to demand it, but his voice had gone low in Cersei’s presence. _Gods,_ he was pathetic. For a moment, she acted like she hadn’t heard him at all. He felt an intense discomfort, like ants were burrowing in his skin. His anger warred inside him, torn by fear and love and hatred.

Then she looked up at him, through her fine, golden eyelashes. “What do you mean?”

He had to force the words from his throat. “Why was Brienne in here?”

“ _Brienne.”_ The way Cersei said her name made Jaime wince. Cersei stared thoughtfully out of the window, then picked up her wine glass and took a small sip. “I needed a favour from her.”

“Why the hell do you need a favour from _her?_ ”

Cersei turned back to him, delicate eyebrows rising. “Is there a reason you’re so overly fond of that cow?”

Jaime’s teeth were hurting from how much he was clenching his jaw. He had to remind himself to stay calm, to refrain from flying into anger. That’s what Cersei _wanted._ She wanted him angry. An angry puppet was easier for her to control. “She’s a good woman, Cersei. Don’t punish her because of some lies Varys told you.”

“Lies? You confirmed it yourself that you were, at some point, inside a broom closet with her,” Cersei said. “But fear not, _dear brother._ I’m not punishing her. On the contrary. I’m rewarding her.”

“ _Rewarding her?_ ”

Cersei smiled. Jaime knew that smile. He knew it better than he knew his own. His stomach constricted. 

“What are you planning?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he could bear to hear the answer. "If you hurt he-"

“Gods, Jaime,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You were always so soft. It’s pathetic. Women like _Lady_ Brienne are pawns. They’re not meant for you to _sympathise_ with. They’re meant to be sacrificed. The sooner you understand that, the better.”

Jaime’s fingernails bit into the palm of his hand as his hands curled into fists. “This isn’t a game of chess, Cersei!”

“ _Life_ is a game of chess. Father understands that, so does Tyrion. Maybe one day you will too,” Cersei sneered. “You seem to still be under the impression that there can be more than one winner. But that’s not how games work. There is only one winner, and the rest? They lose.”

“What is there to _win,_ Cersei? You’ve won! You’re going to be the queen of the bloody Seven Kingdoms!”

His voice was rising, but she wore the expression of utmost calm. He hated when she did that, when she made it seem like he was overreacting. He couldn't stand it. 

“Do you know how to win at chess, Jaime?” she asked, inspecting her nails.

Frustration tore at him, but he kept his voice low as he spoke. “Of course.”

“Tell me.”

Jaime’s eyes darted to the window and then back to Cersei. “You kill the king.”

Cersei smiled, her eyes twinkling. For the first time in his life, Jaime noticed that she wore the smirk of the devil. “Exactly.”

***

Lady Catelyn was sitting on the window sill with a pile of embroidery on her lap, when Brienne walked into the room. Catelyn smiled up at her, a sleepy, almost dreamy smile. Brienne gave a short bow, but Cersei waved it away and gestured for Brienne to pull up a chair.

Brienne did. There was complete silence as she settled onto the velvet cushions, and for a moment, she simply stared down at her boots, trying to sort the words out in her mind.

“Is this a social visit?” Lady Catelyn asked. “Or is there something you wish to speak to me about?”

“Well… in a sense, I suppose both,” Brienne said. She wrung her hands in her lap, resisting the urge to chew on her nails. If Catelyn noticed, however, she showed no indication. Instead she laughed and set aside her embroidery. Brienne felt an ache in her chest, sudden and intense. Gods, she would miss Catelyn. She would miss  _this._

“Let’s get business out of the way then,” Catelyn said, folding her hands in her lap. She looked expectantly at Brienne. Brienne’s gut gave another lurch, and she had to look away, lest the tears return to her eyes again.

“Queen… uh… Lady Cersei has… offered me a… a position in the royal household.” Catelyn frowned, so Brienne quickly barrelled on. “She wants me to join the Kingsguard. As the first woman knight.”

The confusion on Catelyn’s face morphed into surprise. She stared at Brienne for a moment and then her gaze darted away. “Oh,” she said.

“I have not accepted as yet. I wanted to run it by you first,” Brienne said. “You are my sworn lady, and I have greatly enjoyed serving you. I would never want t-”

“Oh don’t be silly, Brienne. I will never begrudge you an opportunity like this.” She was still looking away, however, her hands busying themselves with the embroidery once more.

“You look quite upset,” Brienne said, and her voice came out in a whisper.

“It’s not that,” Catelyn said. She fingered a loose thread. “It’s just… well… is this really what you want?”

Brienne blinked, stunned by the question. “Of course.”

“You want to be a knight?”

“More than anything,” Brienne said.

“Of the Kingsguard?” Catelyn pressed, skeptically. “You know they can’t marry. They cannot have children.”

“That was hardly an option for me anyway,” Brienne mumbled, gaze dropping to her boots again.

She was surprised when Catelyn let out a sharp exhale, one that sounded a lot like impatience. “This is exactly what I mean, Brienne. I don’t want you to do something like this just because you seem to believe no man will want you.” Her brow furrowed. “You used to want love.”

“I was stupid then,” Brienne said. Her tone wasn’t angry, but there was a firmness in her voice that she did not usually use with Lady Catelyn. “I was young.”

“Brienne,” Catelyn said, gently. “There is someone out there for you. Why, when I first met Ned-”

“Please do not, my lady,” Brienne said, standing suddenly. “I am not you, and you are not me. We cannot be compared.” She swallowed. “If you have no issues with me accepting the offer, then I will take my leave.”

Catelyn reached over and grabbed one of her hands, holding it tightly in her own. “I know you’ve been burned in the past, but that’s no reason to make a hasty decision…”

“There is no hasty decision here, my lady. I’d accepted that I would have a life without a husband a long time ago.”

Catelyn watched her for a long moment, and then let out a light sigh. She dropped Brienne's hands. “All I’m saying is, think about it. You can still be a knight without being a member of the Kingsguard.”

“No one will knight me. I’m a woman. This is my only chance and if I don’t take it…” she swallowed. “Then I will have nothing.”

“You will always have me,” Catelyn said. 

Perhaps she believed that, but Brienne knew it wasn’t true. Lady Catelyn was going to become the Lady of Winterfell. She would have a husband, she would have little red-headed children. She would have the North to run and various other responsibilities, and Brienne would fall to the side-lines. If she accompanied Lady Catelyn to Winterfell, well then… she would just go back to being alone.

She’d always known her position by Lady Catelyn’s side was temporary. But the Kingsguard… being a knight? That would be forever. Brienne imagined her own name, immortalised for eternity within the pages of the White Book.

Ser Brienne of Tarth.

A shiver passed through her, sparks in her bloodstream. Brienne felt alive.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay. I have been going through some major life changes at the moment and so I didn't have the headspace to work on this fic much. Thank you to everyone who's commented though ❤ Seeing that notification in my email absolutely brightened my day. 
> 
> WARNINGS!! I don't want to spoil anything, but this chapter deals with some sensitive stuff. There is a sooort of non-con scene and also I know I said there would be no incest, but it turned out that I lied. I know, I was surprised too.

**TEN.**

Renly came to Brienne’s room at half-past six to escort her to dinner. 

It was the night before the royal wedding, and the pre-wedding feast was meant to be lavish and exclusive. Only the higher lords and ladies had been invited. Brienne hadn’t gotten an invitation, but Renly had asked her to be his dinner companion and despite the uncomfortable gnawing in her gut at the thought of being an ungainly, looming figure among all the dainty, painted ladies, she agreed to join him.  He could be incredibly persuasive. And truth be told, Brienne had always had a hard time denying him anything. 

That said, even she had almost turned and fled when she’d seen the dress he’d sent up for her. 

It was a light blue dress, with long sleeves which were fur trimmed. While it was sufficiently long, the dress dipped down around the bosom area, and it was far too figure hugging around the waist. Brienne was sure she’d look far more appalling in it than she would in a regular tunic, but she wasn’t about to cause Renly any shame by showing up to the wedding feast in trousers. 

Not that he would feel shame. Likely he would be supremely amused by the appalled reactions of the other guests. That was something she had always loved about Renly. It took a lot to embarrass him. 

She knew Renly would have preferred to go with a man, but regardless, he was a perfect gentleman. He complimented how she looked in the gown, even though she knew she looked ridiculous, and he held out his arm for her to take as they descended the stairs to the feast. He stopped to chat with every second person they passed, and he introduced Brienne to each and every one of them, calling her ‘Lady Brienne,’ and promising the lords and ladies that she was the best fighter he had ever seen. 

Brienne found herself torn between embarrassment and pride. Her cheeks seemed to be permanently flushed. 

They joined Lady Lysa and Lady Catelyn at a table. Catelyn gave her a cautious look, and Brienne offered a smile in return;  _ No hard feelings.  _ Catelyn returned it, and just like that, things were normal between them again. Lysa, for her part, ignored both Brienne and Renly. She smelled strongly of lavender oil and had done up her face in a way that resembled that of a painted doll. She had come to the evening on Petyr Baelish’s arm. Besides Catelyn sat Lord Eddard Stark, the warden of the North and her betrothed. 

It was only when the first course had been served that Brienne spotted Jaime walking in.  Not that she’d been looking for him. 

In the harsh lights of the room, the sharp lines of his face were on full display; his high cheekbones and the chiseled cut of his jawline. She’d expected him to be in Lannister armour, but instead he wore a dark maroon shirt with golden embroidery. The neckline was low, revealing the hollow at the base of his neck and, a little further down, a smooth expanse of chest. Brienne swallowed hard. 

He was unaccompanied, she noticed, though he remained by Cersei’s elbow as everyone took their seats at their assigned tables. She tried not to think too hard about it - it made sense that he would be sitting with his family, just as she was sitting only a few seats away from Renly’s other brother Stannis - but she couldn’t stop the sickly feeling that swirled in her gut. If Renly and Stannis were sitting separately from Robert, and Tyrion was sitting away from his sister, then why was Jaime stuck to her side? 

She still felt embarrassed and guilty about what she’d said to him.  _ “The only one who has been hurting me is you.”  _ What had possessed her to be so frank with him? To tell him what was in her heart and in her mind? To admit that he had hurt her was to admit that he held a profound impact on her, and she didn’t want him to know how much she’d been thinking about him. 

Every so often, her eyes darted towards him, and she noticed the way Cersei kept touching him. Fingers on his fingers. A hand wrapped around his wrist. Fingers through his hair. Her lips in his ear. 

The skin by Brienne’s thumbs was growing raw where she kept picking at it. 

“So,” Renly said, dragging her attention away from Jaime Lannister’s laugh. “What was the news you wanted to tell me?” 

Brienne blinked. For a moment, her mind went completely and utterly blank. Then it came rushing back to her in a delirious wave. “Oh, yes. I’d almost forgotten.” 

Her breathless words made Renly look up curiously from his goblet. He watched her intently, his head cocked slightly to the side. 

“Cer… ah, Lady Cersei has offered me a position on Robert’s Kingsguard.” 

Renly’s eyebrows rose. “What?” 

“I know it’s uncommon, for a Lady to be a knight bu-”

“That’s not the part I take issue with,” Renly said. “You deserve to be a knight more than any idiotic man in the Seven Kingdoms. But why the hell is  _ Cersei  _ of all people offering it to you?” 

Brienne felt herself retreating behind her walls again, arming herself with defences of sharp words and silence that had always kept most people at a distance from her. “What is that supposed to mean? She’s the queen.”

“She’s a vile bitch. And she’s not the queen yet.” Renly gestured to the front of the room with his fork. “She’s never done anything out of the kindness of her heart. She can’t. Her heart doesn’t have an ounce of kindness  _ in  _ it. I’ve never heard of her doing anything remotely ‘good’ without having some sort of ulterior motive behind it.” 

Brienne swallowed. “How would you know that?” 

“I’ve heard stories,” Renly raised his eyebrows at Brienne, pointedly. “And, I’ve  _ met  _ her.” 

Brienne rolled her eyes and Renly grinned. She normally loved that grin of his, full of mirth and mischief, but at this moment, it stung. Did he not realise what he was taking away from her? All the hope? The real possibility of her dream actually coming true? Even if he was right about Cersei, wasn’t there a part of him that realised how devastating this was for her to even consider? 

Her mind returned again to Jaime Lannister, to him stopping her outside Cersei’s chambers. She could not shake from her mind the serious expression he’d worn, the way he’d spoken to her, his voice so full of intensity. 

_ “Cersei is dangerous. Especially to people close to me.” _

Brienne felt a lump in her throat. Gods, was she truly being naive about this? 

“I really thought you of all people would be on my side,” she muttered.  

Renly’s attention had wandered away from her, but suddenly it returned, whipping at her so fast it almost made her jump. “Who else have you told?” 

Brienne gave a half-hearted shrug, but dropped her voice so that no one else could hear. “Lady Catelyn. She expressed her concerns… in regards to how members of the Kingsguard cannot marry…”

“Forget marriage! You’d have to give up your inheritance! Once your father passes-”

“I know what will happen when my father passes,” Brienne said, her voice sharper than she intended it to be. She took a deep breath and then continued, softening her words. “I was never going to be a good Evenstar and you know it. I have cousins. They can rule the Island instea-” 

Renly shook his head, half in disbelief and half in exasperation. “Seven Hells, Brienne. Would you really give up so much just to be able to fight in other men’s wars? You cannot tell me you do not miss Tarth.” 

Brienne dropped her gaze. “I miss my father.” 

“You miss the Island too. I know you do not miss those idiot boys who were so horrible to you, but do you know where they are now?” Renly waited a moment, but when she did not answer, he lifted his goblet and gestured with it. “Fighting in other men’s wars.” 

Brienne let out a frustrated sigh as Renly took a large gulp of wine. Her eyes darted again to Jaime, and then back to Renly, who was running his tongue over his teeth, thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine that Cersei has her eyes on Tarth, but then why target you?” He rubbed his chin. “Perhaps Catelyn is right. Perhaps this is about marriage.” 

Brienne scoffed. “No one wants to marry me.” 

“That you know of,” Renly said, raising his eyebrows. “I, for one, have noticed that a certain gentleman has been watching you all night.” 

Despite herself, Brienne’s face flooded with heat. She followed Renly’s gaze across the room, but instantly deflated when she saw that he was looking at Ser Rodryk. 

_ Seven hells.  _

She wasn’t sure what Ser Rodryk had been playing at lately, but right now, she had no interest. She turned back to Renly with an unimpressed look on her face. “You think Cersei wants to make me a member of Robert’s Kingsguard so that I do not marry Ser Rodryk?” 

Renly grinned widely, spreading his hands in an exaggerated shrug. “Perhaps she’s in love with him, and is jealous that he is taken with you.” 

Brienne rolled her eyes. “No man in his right mind would ever pick me over Cersei Lannister.” 

“Nonsense,” Renly said, biting into a piece of bread. “I, for one, would much rather marry you.” 

The edge had successfully been taking off the conversation, and yet Brienne felt an uneasiness still lingering in her gut. She ran a fingernail over the table, bringing up splinters. “Renly,” she said, and then hesitated. Her hands became fists. 

“Yes?” 

She licked her lips then looked at him. “Do you really think Lady Cersei has ulterior motives?” 

Renly’s face softened. Carefully, he reached out and took her hand, his hands soft in her own. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I just want you to be careful.” 

*  * *

Cersei had insisted that Jaime sit with her on the dais. Jaime, for his part, wanted nothing less. 

He showed up to the dinner late, and in an outfit she had always hated. His rebellions were small, and yet Cersei took notice. When she saw him, her lips pressed together in a cold and disapproving look. Still, she was far too concerned with appearances to call him out on it. She smiled and laughed and linked their arms together as they spoke to Lords and Ladies and Knights. 

Jaime’s mind was fuzzy and unfocused. Tyrion had come to his room a few hours earlier with two bottles of wine and they had finished both. Now his thoughts were swimming, pleasantly muffled. 

This was nice. Not thinking. 

He smiled and laughed and did his bit. He was the Golden Lannister tonight. The Heir of Casterly Rock. The most eligible bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Thankfully, his father hadn’t insisted on Jaime going with Lysa. He suspected Cersei had something to do with that, but he didn’t want to ask her. Why look a gift horse in its mouth? Plus the last thing Jaime wanted to do was think. He was tired of thinking. Absolutely and utterly sick of it. 

He sat at the dais with his father and Cersei, but Tyrion was no where to be found. Tywin seemed both disapproving and a bit relieved, but Cersei’s hatred and anger for their youngest brother could be felt for miles. 

Jaime turned his attention away from her. He could barely stand to look at her. He’d always known that she was ruthless, but to plan on killing Robert? How could she possibly believe she could get away with that? 

He felt her hand on his thigh. He ignored it and continued to eat, but she didn’t let up. Her fingers climbed, higher and higher, until Jaime reached down and pulled her hand away. 

He wasn’t going to do this. He wouldn’t. 

But her hand was back, curling around his inner thigh, though she was talking to their father, smiling and laughing. Jaime grunted and pulled her hand away again. His eyes swam through the crowd, looking for a distraction. As much as he had no interest in sleeping with Cersei, his body was reacting to her touch. It had been months since he felt her fingers on his skin, and a part of him - even though it was a part he loathed - missed it. Craved it, even. He felt repulsed by himself. 

His eyes wandered over dark heads and laughing faces, until... 

His heart faltered in his chest.  _Brienne._

He hadn’t expected her to be here. She wasn’t meant to - this event was for only the higher lords and ladies. He'd made sure she was not on the list, made sure that she remained far away from Cersei and her poisonous gaze. Yet there she was, in a striking blue dress that showed off a shocking amount of skin. Jaime caught his eyes dipping down the front and he quickly corrected his gaze, flushing. She looked horribly uncomfortable in it. Truth be told, it did not suit her at all. She looked far more fetching in her trousers and tunics, and yet, there was something about this colour on her pale skin that made him unable to look away. 

She was not looking in his direction. She was talking to Renly. 

Not simply talking. They were holding hands, hers tightly clasped in his. Even though Jaime knew of Renly’s proclivities, knew that he would never think of Brienne the way she thought of him, he felt something thick and hot surge through his gut. They were sitting so close to one another, it was almost indecent. 

The servants were clearing away the plates and the tables were being moved back so that the dancing could begin. Dances were not a common occurrence at such events, but Robert had insisted. And he was the king, after all. 

Robert and Cersei led the first dance, and then slowly, other pairs trickled onto the floor. Jaime watched as Petyr Baelish led Lysa Tully in a spin, almost bumping into Catelyn and Ned. 

He was also relieved to see that Renly had been pulled onto the dance floor by a woman from House Martell. Brienne had been left sitting on the table, watching the dancers. 

Would he be able to slip over there? He threw a glance at Cersei. She was back at his side, laughing with a Tyrell, but when he tried to move, her hand darted out and closed around his wrist. 

“Jaime,” she said, her voice dripping with sweetness like a honeycomb, “listen to this story Lord Tyrell is telling me.” 

The story was long, and droning. Cersei had simply called him to her side so she would not be the only one suffering through Lord Tyrell’s company. His eyes flew to Brienne again, but she was no longer at the table. 

His stomach clenched. Where had she gone? Had she left already? 

His eyes weaved through the dancing couples until he found her, tall and striking that that dress of hers. The same colour of her eyes. She was laughing and blushing and dancing. 

Brienne of Tarth was  _ dancing.  _

She looked uncomfortable, but she was not as ungainly on the floor as he would have imagined. Renly had her in his arms and was leading her in the appropriate steps. She didn’t look at ease, but there was a sort of familiarity in these motions, in this… routine, that said to Jaime that they had done this before. 

Something that felt almost like anger was starting to fizzle inside him. 

Jaime re-filled his goblet of wine. 

A Lady - one of Robert’s cousins - came up and asked Jaime to dance, but Cersei dismissed her, saying that she needed Jaime by her side. The girl looked put-off. Jaime would have been too, but at this point he wasn’t sure he could dance even if he wanted to. The alcohol was muddling his mind, hindering his steps. 

She hadn’t been the first lady to ask him to dance tonight, and she would not be the last. Jaime rubbed his wrists and looked out at the dance floor again. He wasn’t sure why his eyes kept returning to Brienne and Renly. He wasn’t sure why he kept watching them even though it made him sick to his stomach. 

Finally, he could take it no longer. He made his way to the front of the dais. If he could not dance with her, he would take her aside to speak with her, but he would not leave her to Renly for a moment more. 

He was almost to the steps leading down to the floor when he spotted him approaching. It was like watching a lion hunting a deer. The predator loping slowly, steadily towards the prey. Every movement was calculated, measured. The way he stopped at their side, the way he extended his hand and asked for a dance. Before Jaime’s very eyes, Brienne hesitated - barely a moment - before she put her own hand in Ser Rodryk’s and he spun her across the floor, away from Renly, and into the crowds of laughing people. 

Jaime was sure he was going to retch. But that was the excessive alcohol, of course. 

He turned back and stumbled towards the table, towards the pitcher of wine, but Cersei caught his wrist again. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” she hissed in his ear. 

He didn’t respond, only snatched his hand away. The sharp movement almost sent him tumbling. Cersei pressed her lips together and then glanced over her shoulder at The Mountain. She gave him a quick nod and then Jaime was being led out of the room, up the stairs and into chambers that were definitely not his own. 

He was tossed into a bed, in his velvet shirt and all, and frankly, he was grateful for it. 

*  * *

Jaime awoke to hands on his chest. He opened his eyes blearily. The room was dark and silent. Cersei was on top of him, her hands under his shirt. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was still slurred. 

“How much time must we waste?” she asked, her breath hot and sweet on the shell of his ear. Her fingers were gentle on his skin, tangled in the hair on his chest. Her weight was familiar, comfortable. 

It felt good. It felt good to feel her again. To touch her skin, smooth as butter. 

She leaned down, and her lips touched his, and it felt nice. It felt easy. It felt intimate. It made his skin heat up and his brain cool down. 

He didn’t want to think. 

And after an entire evening of feeling like horse manure, didn’t he deserve to feel good? Didn’t he deserve to feel wanted? 

He kissed her back, and she began pulling off her dress. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN.**

Ser Rodryk’s hand on her waist was not a sensation Brienne had ever expected to feel. Not in this lifetime, at least. 

It wasn’t… unpleasant. His hand was large and warm where it rested on her hip, and the other hand held her palm as he moved her to the music. 

No, it wasn’t unpleasant, but her stomach tightened anyway. 

She couldn’t help the memories that kept washing over her, unbidden. The boys in Tarth with their velvet doublets and their cruel smirks. She kept imagining a matching smirk on Rodryk’s face. 

Her eyes darted to Renly. He was dancing with a young woman but he caught her eye and gave her an encouraging smile. It settled her, that familiar smile. 

Brienne turned back to face Ser Rodryk. It was alarming being so close to him. From this distance, she could smell the wine on his breath. She was the same height as him, and - she noted, a bit mortified - their hands were about the same size. Still, he led the way with a certain ease, a grace to his every movement. 

She was an adult woman. She wasn’t going to allow memories of cruel children stop her from living her life. And whatever said and done, Ser Rodryk was a knight. At least here, in the court of the King, he had to uphold at least some semblance of honour. And mocking a woman - a woman from a noble family, at that - would not be taken lightly, especially by the Tullys. 

Brienne was starting to feel dizzy from all the swirling. The song ended and she sent up a wordless word of thanks to the gods. She liked dancing, truth be told, but tonight her guts were roiling inside of her and she was ready to be done with the entire evening. 

The room had grown dull since Jaime Lannister had left it. It was like he'd taken that electric buzz in the air along with him when he left. 

“I think I’m going to sit down,” Brienne told Rodryk. 

She’d expected him to move away from her, to ask another woman to dance, but he followed her to the tables and sat down beside her. She tugged at her sleeve and stared down at her shoes, unable to look at his face. If she did, she worried, he would see the suspicion in her eyes. 

“Would you like to leave?” he asked, and she could feel his breath warm in her ear. 

She did very much want to leave. She wanted to be back in her bed more than anything. 

“I don’t think I could without Renly,” she admitted. 

Ser Rodryk made a dismissive click with his tongue and stood, extending his hand down to her. She stared at it, dumbly. When she didn’t make a move to take it, he shook his head, grabbed her palm and hauled her to her feet. 

Brienne could feel her face going hot with embarrassment. “What are you doing?” she hissed. 

“Come on,” he said, and took off through the crowds. 

She followed him. She did not know why she did, but she did. Perhaps it was because in this moment - a little wild and a little unpredictable - he seemed to remind her of Jaime. 

The real Jaime had left the party quite soon after she and Ser Rodryk had started to dance. 

Rodryk was waiting for her outside, in the hallway. He gestured to the stairways and said, “My Lady. After you.” 

Brienne had no idea where he was asking her to lead him, so she remained silent, fidgeting in place, her awkwardness clear from her every twitch. Like Jaime did he want a night on the ramparts? Or a stroll on the terraces? 

He saw her hesitation and a smile caught and pulled at the corner of his lips. “I could sense your discomfort,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “So I thought I’d play my role as knight and rescue you. Could I have the pleasure of walking you to your room?”

Brienne gave a small, bewildered nod and took off down the hallway. She wondered for a moment if she was in a dream. Everything about this night felt… off. Even though she knew it was real, there were parts of it that didn’t seem to make any sense. 

Rodryk followed her, walking so close that every once in a while his elbow brushed hers. She felt a strange prickling sensation at the back of her neck, and for the life of her should couldn’t tell if it was an enjoyable sensation or not. 

The walk to Brienne’s room felt longer than normal. They walked in a stifling silence, the kind that threatened to choke her with its oppressive hand. 

At her door, Brienne turned and gave him a wan smile. “Thank you for walking me to my room, Ser Rodryk.” 

He said nothing. The corridor was still and empty, so quiet that Brienne could hear her shallow breaths. Lights from the torches on the wall flickered over Ser Rodryk, casting half of his handsome face in shadows. 

“Brienne,” he said, his voice low and deep. “Now that we are alone, I hope that you will take what I say to heart.” 

Brienne’s pulse surged. She took a step backwards, her back hitting the oaken door of her room. Ser Rodryk took a step towards her, and trapped her between his arms, one on either side of her face. 

“I’m very taken with you, Brienne. Truly.” His breath was hot on her lips. Brienne shifted her gaze away so she wasn’t looking at him. 

“Ser Rodryk, I-”

Her words were stolen when his lips pressed against hers, hard and wet. Brienne felt pain surge through her as their teeth knocked together. She shoved him away from her, and then twisted out of his grip, wiping her lips with her sleeve. Poets sang songs about the epic kisses between knights and their ladies, and the maidens she had grown up with had talked day in and day out of the pleasures of having a man’s lips against their own. But feeling Ser Rodryk’s lips against hers hadn’t been like the songs at all. 

It had been wet. And unpleasant. 

Ser Rodryk was looking at her, savage and unhinged. “Come on,” he growled. “There’s no need for all this false modesty. We both know you’re not the kind of woman who follows the rules.” 

“What _rules?_ ” she spat. 

He gestured at her, as if referring to her entire form. “You aren’t like other noble women. You don’t dress like one. You don’t act like one. You don’t care about women are _expected_ to do.” He leaned in, his breath warm on her collarbone. “I am sure that you are not a maiden either.” 

Brienne stared back at him. Below the overwhelming shock filling her, was a slow, bubbling rage. Her hand clenched into a fist. 

“I would like you to think about what you have just implied,” she said, crisply, the words coming out as a hiss between her clenched teeth. "I am a noblewoman, Ser." 

Then Ser Rodryk had his hands on her shoulders again, and Brienne felt herself knocked back into the door. “Is it true?” he asked, and his voice was lecherous. He was moving in on her, his lips hovering near her neck. 

For a moment, Brienne gathered herself, steeled her anger into a cold, chilly silence. When she spoke next, her voice was laced with venom. “Even if it was, I would much rather die than partake in it with you.” 

Ser Rodryk reared back as though he’d been struck, though his hands remained on Brienne’s shoulders. His lips turned up into a snarl. 

“Bitch,” he seethed. “You’re barely a woman. You should be grateful I’m even remotely interested in you. Who else would be? Look at you. You’ve got the teeth of an ass and the body of a man. I would rath-”

She wasn’t interested in hearing anything else he had to say. She knocked her elbow into his jaw. He howled and stumbled backwards. Gripping his wrist she twisted his arm, dislodging herself and then yanking it behind his back. He cried out in pain and crumpled to the ground. Brienne slammed her shoes into his ribs, and when he let out a moan and doubled over, she rushed into her room and locked the door behind her. 

She stood there for a moment, her back against the door, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She closed her eyes. Outside, she could still hear Ser Rodryk’s pained groans. She unclenched her fist. Her nails had left little half-moons in the skin of her palm. She stared at them until her tears blurred them, until she couldn’t see anything at all. 

***

Jaime awoke to find himself naked in Cersei’s bed. For a moment, he was disoriented. Where was he? The surroundings did not look familiar. 

Then, he noticed his clothes on the ground. He noticed the dress Cersei had worn the night before slung neatly on the back of a chair. He noticed a half-drunk goblet of wine on a low table. 

Jaime barely made it to the chamber pot before he retched. 

He was still heaving when Cersei walked in, wearing a robe of pale pink silk. 

“How many times have I told you not to be so sloppy when you drink?” she asked. Her voice was high and haughty. She sat down on the armchair in her room and picked up the goblet of wine. 

Jaime said nothing. He stood, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His guts were still roiling. He couldn’t stand to look at Cersei, at that smug look on her face. She’d gotten her way. Again. He’d lowered his inhibitions and she’d taken advantage. Just as she always had. Just as she always would. 

The thought arrived in Jaime’s mind with a starting clarity. 

Nothing was ever going to change. Not with Cersei. Not even if she became the queen. 

It almost felt as though when he’d thrown up the wine from the night before, a part of his addiction to Cersei had been expelled too. Now he felt the emptiness where Cersei had once been filling with a thick and palpable shame. He turned away from her.

“What I do is none of your business,” he growled. He began to snatch his clothes from the floor. 

_Stupid._ How could he be so _stupid?_

She let out a sigh, a long-suffering exhale. “Come now Jaime, haven’t we done this dance before?” 

_Dance._

He remembered Brienne, dancing with Ser Rodryk, her cheeks flushed and the way the light blue of her dress looked against her sun-darkened skin. He felt his stomach clench. Jaime yanked on his breeches, and then pulled on his over shirt, not bothering to lace either properly. 

“Where are you going?” Cersei asked. 

Jaime said nothing. He picked up his belt from the ground. 

“I’m speaking to you.” 

“Unfortunately, dear sister, I have no interest in speaking to you.” 

Cersei pursed her lips. In the light of day, without the rose-tint of the alcohol addling his mind, she looked pinched and coarse. 

“Is that it then?” she asked. “You sleep with me and then treat me like garbage?” 

He spun on his heel, jaw clenched. “I had no interest in sleeping with you, and you knew that.” 

“That’s not what it seemed like last night.” 

“I was _drunk.”_ He inhaled sharply, through his nose. “It’s your bloody wedding day, Cersei. This is bold, even for you.” 

Cersei gave him a thin smile. She’d always thought of herself as frightfully clever, second in intelligence only to their father. But Jaime could see right through her. Maybe it was because he knew her more intimately than anyone else, or perhaps it was because she always underestimated him. 

“Robert won’t be a problem for long.” 

Jaime shook his head. “You are insane.” 

“Me?” she stood, gliding over to him with her teeth set in a snarl. “ _You_ are the one who is happy to spend the rest of your life with that _unbearable_ Tully bitch just to spite me!” 

Jaime was in no mood to argue with her. Snatching up his boots, he left the room. He was no longer thinking. He didn’t care in the least whether or not the guards noticed his state of undress, or whether his father saw him looking so dishevelled. He didn’t even consciously think of where he was going. His feet led the way, and Jaime let them, his footsteps echoing off the stone of the empty corridor. 

It was only when his feet stopped outside a large wooden door that Jaime realised where he had unconsciously taken himself. 

He knocked on the door. And when there was so response, he knocked again. 

“Who is it?” the voice on the other end was hoarse, and tired. 

“Brienne?” he asked. 

The silence on the other end was surprised. Who had she thought it was? Was she expecting someone? 

There was a thud as the bolt slid away and the door opened a crack to reveal Brienne’s tall figure. Seeing him, she opened the door wider. Her pale blonde hair was in a state of complete disarray and she looked like she hadn’t slept all night. She was in a thick black robe, but her feet were bare.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, wench,” he said, and though he said it with mirth, he couldn’t help but think about how even like this, she looked so much lovelier than Cersei did. 

“Ser Jaime,” she said, and her voice sounded raspy. He could tell she was trying to be cold, but as her eyes travelled over his unkempt form, his haunted expression, her gaze softened. “What… are you…?” 

She took a step back and her robe dipped, exposing one of her collarbones. Jaime’s eyes snagged on it, and on the dark red wine stain of a bruise that was blooming there. 

All his own shame and horror at what he’d done the night before melted away. “What is that?” he asked, and his voice came out thick with concern. “What happened to you?” 

She saw him looking and shook her head, turning away and pulling her robe more tightly across her chest. He pushed his way inside, shutting the door behind him.

“What happened?” he asked again, insistently. “Was it Cersei?” 

“No,” Brienne said. “Why would Lady Cers-”

“ _Who_ did that to you, Brienne?” he asked. He knew what she was playing at. He wasn’t about to let her worm her way out of this conversation. 

She turned to face him and her lips were pressed in a thin line. “It’s not important.” 

“Someone _hurt_ you, of course it’s important!” 

Her face was emotionless when she turned back to him. “It was a man.” 

“A man attacked you!?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s fine. I took care of it.” 

Caught up in his deluge of concern, it took Jaime a moment to realise what she’d said. His eyebrows rose. "You beat him up?" 

Brienne didn’t look at him when she spoke, but her expression was no longer harsh. In fact, there was something glittering in the blue of her eyes. “Left him whining like a wounded dog.” 

Despite himself, Jaime laughed, half with giddy relief and half with… well, pride. Pure and simple. 

No one could mess with Brienne of Tarth. 

Brienne caught him staring at her and sent him a quizzical look, but Jaime just continued looking back at her, his heartbeat slowing down to a soft murmur in his chest. He had the overwhelming need to touch her, to run his fingers across the bruise, to feel the coarse skin of her fingers on his own cheek. He held his hand, to keep it from moving of its own volition. 

This wasn’t the time. He was coming apart at the seams. Fury and longing and shame coiled around him suffocating him, tearing the breath from his lungs. 

She didn’t deserve to be dragged down into his confusing cesspool of emotions. 

“I must go, my lady.” 

“You’re leaving?” the words came out abruptly, and she looked appalled at herself for saying them. Jaime’s heart gave another twinge. 

He gave a small nod. “There is a wedding to attend, after all.” 

“Are you… are you going?” Brienne asked, her voice low. 

“Well, it is my sister getting married,” Jaime said. His voice didn’t shake. Brienne looked away from him. 

“She’s not just your sister.” 

Another silence. This one seemed to go on for years. Jaime’s gut clenched. 

“No,” he said. “She was not.” 

Brienne gave a nod. A sharp, small one. There was no disgust on her face. No revulsion. Just a hint of sadness in her eyes. Jaime swallowed. 

“I am beyond relieved that you are safe, my lady.” 

Her breath caught in her throat. “Ser Jaime…” her words trailed off. For a moment they just stood, staring at each other. Then he bowed before her, and left. 

***

The wedding had been a grim, almost sordid affair. Jaime watched from the sidelines, feeling a swirl of discomfort in his gut. 

Cersei was clad in a golden dress, with embroidery so fine, it was like a spider’s web. Her hair was twisted up in intricate braids - the workmanship, no doubt, of dozens of nimble fingers. 

She and Robert exchanged their vows and Jaime watched, silent. He turned down any offers of wine, and once the ceremony was over, headed for the door. His father hissed at him, gesturing towards the hall where the feast had been laid out for them, but Jaime muttered some excuses about needing a piss, and went outside to breathe in the clear evening air. 

Something was wrong. 

He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the sun in the pale blue sky. 

Jaime had always been a jealous man. Ever since they were children he’d hated seeing Cersei even so much as flirt with anyone else. He would feel the hot fingers of jealousy grab at him, and he would clench his teeth and remind himself that he had to keep his feelings under control. 

Watching the wedding he’d felt a multitude of emotions - sadness and pity and relief and discomfort, and yet… there had been no jealousy. None at all. 

Had that last night really done it? Had he finally pulled her off his skin? 

Of course, he was sad his sister was being forced to marry a man she did not love, and he was uncomfortable to be at the wedding of a woman he’d once loved so deeply, and a part of him felt… melancholy, that a chapter of his life had closed. But when he closed his eyes and pictured himself standing there before her… the image felt wrong. 

Perhaps it was just because they were siblings, and he knew they never could marry, but only a few months ago, wouldn’t he have claimed his greatest wish would have been for a world where he and Cersei would be free to love each other? 

And then, there was the growing clarity within him, the surety that if he had gotten his wish, he would have been terribly, deeply unhappy. 

Jaime felt another rush of... something. Shock, perhaps. 

Perhaps this was grief. Perhaps this was how it was manifesting in him. He tried to analyse what he was feeling, but his thoughts once again returned to where they had been going all evening - to Brienne of Tarth. And the man who had attacked her. 

The noise from the feast rang in the hallways. Jaime knew he ought to go back inside, enjoy his meal with everyone else, but he felt like he couldn’t breathe in there. He couldn’t bear to see Brienne, to see her flirt with Renly and Ser Rodryk, to see her laugh with Catelyn and Lysa. Not when he felt so helpless. The knowledge that he had been with Cersei while Brienne was being attacked... it was devastating. 

So he stayed outside, settling down on the steps of the keep, staring up at the sky as it grew darker and darker. 

The noise of the feast was dying away when Jaime felt a hand on his shoulder. He started and then looked up, his heart jumping for a moment in anticipation. 

It was only Tyrion. He smiled at Jaime as he lowered himself down next to him, holding his glass of wine above his head. 

“I see we had the same idea.” His speech was ever-so-slightly slurred. 

“Hardly. I’ve been out here for hours.” 

Tyrion sighed and leaned against Jaime’s shoulder. “So… she went through with it.” 

“She did.” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes.” 

Tyrion sat straight and shot Jaime a strange look. “Do you mean that? Or are you jus-”

“I mean it.” 

“Then why do you look for all the world like a child who has just watched their pet cat get run over by a carriage?”

Jaime rubbed his hand over the rough stone of the steps. “I think… I mean… it’s strange, isn’t it? Why aren’t I more… torn up about it?” 

“Well… perhaps you know she doesn’t love Robert the way she loves you.” 

Jaime looked at the ground. “And you truly think she loves me?” 

Tyrion said nothing for a while. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “I think… she loves you in her own way.” 

He spoke without thinking. “It’s not enough anymore.” The words surprised him, even though he was the one who said them. He turned to Tyrion, eyes widening. Tyrion’s expression seemed to mirror his own. 

Tyrion opened his mouth and then closed it, abruptly. Despite himself, Jaime snorted. “Never thought I’d be able to render you speechless.” 

“Never thought you’d manage to see her for what she really is. What changed?” 

“I don’t know,” Jaime said. “I think I realised… maybe… I deserve more.” He glanced at Tyrion out of the corner of his eyes. “I think I prefer the Jaime I am when I’m with you.” 

Tyrion grinned, and it was one of those rare smiles of genuine happiness, his eyes shining. Jaime felt a pang in his heart; an ache of fondness, of love, of regret. 

How could he have ever been so stupid to not see what Cersei had made him into? 

Jaime had always thought he was the kind of person who wanted for nothing. But it seemed that wasn’t true. He did want some things. He wanted people to stop calling him Kingslayer. He wanted people to trust him. 

He wanted to be happy. 

Tyrion leaned back against Jaime’s shoulder, sighing. “Whatever helped you realise it, I’m glad it did.” 

Jaime leaned his head on Tyrion’s. It almost felt like they were children again, huddled on the top of the stairs, hiding from their father. 

“Tyrion,” he said. “Could you do me a favour?” 

“Anything.” 

“Someone attacked Brienne last night.” 

Tyrion shifted and looked up at Jaime in surprise. “What?” 

“She won’t tell me who. But I… I need to know. Do you think Varys could-”

Tyrion spoke before Jaime could finish his thought. “I’ll ask him.” 

Jaime nodded, and smiled at his little brother. Something in his gut settled, like silt at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe things really would be alright. 

***

Renly sat at the front with the King and Queen. He liked watching the men joust, liked being close enough to ‘smell the blood’ as he called it. Brienne suspected the truth had less to do with the blood and more to do with the sweat gleaming on the skin of jousters, but she said nothing.

Truth be told, she too loved to be close to the action, but she did not think she was welcome to sit up front with the rest of the royal family, so she instead made her way up to the very top of the stands. She found a seat next to the Mountain’s brother, the Hound. She’d heard he was a fantastic fighter, but he clearly wasn’t much of a conversationalist, because he met her polite questions with grunts, his eyes fixed on the front even though nothing was happening. Eventually, she stopped trying to engage him. 

She searched the crowd for Jaime, but he wasn't with the other competitors. He must have still been in the tent, getting ready. She pictured him dressed in full Lannister armour, the lion crest emblazoned across his chest. 

The air smelled of fresh dirt and grass and sweat. It was like being in the middle of a fight. Even though she was not a part of the joust, Brienne felt exhilarated. She was searching the crowd for the fighter representing the Tullys, when the Hound got up and left and someone else took his place. 

She was surprised to see Tyrion by her side, his cheeks flushed and his strange eyes bright. 

“My lord!” she said, shocked. “I didn’t…” 

“Lady Brienne,” he said, grinning widely. “I have barely seen you since we arrived in King’s Landing.” 

“Yes, I’ve been… occupied.” 

“With our Lord Renly, perhaps?” Brienne turned away embarrassed, but he simply laughed and patted her on the arm. “I’m simply joking. Come on. Lighten up.” 

He offered Brienne his goblet of wine but she politely declined. The very smell made her shudder. They sat in a comfortable silence for a long moment, until Tyrion cleared his throat. 

“I… wanted to ask you something,” Tyrion said, and his voice was so hesitant, that Brienne turned back to him, confused. “I will be returning to Casterly Rock in a few days and I don’t know when we might have a chance to speak about it again.” 

She gave him a small nod, encouraging him to go on. 

Tyrion took a deep breath. “I’ve seen you fight, Lady Brienne. You are not only an extremely skilled fighter, but you are an honourable woman. It’s hard to find even knights with your qualities.” 

This was not what Brienne had expected to hear. Tyrion seemed to be waiting for her permission to continue, but she was too surprised to speak. 

Tyrion continued anyway. “I have a squire, back in Casterly Rock. His name is Podrick. He’s just a young boy - too young, right now - but he wants to be a knight more than anything in the world, and I was wondering… well… see, I wanted Jaime to teach him but after seeing you… well, I was wondering if I might send him to be trained by you.” 

Brienne felt a lump in her throat. She didn’t try to speak for fear that her voice would come out cracked and wobbly, so instead she gave him one deep nod. 

Tyrion seemed to understand. He gave her a quick smile, eyes bright. “Thank you, Brienne. The boy has served me well and I wish to reward him best as I can.” 

“I understand,” she said. “I’m honoured you see me fit to be his mentor.” 

Tyrion gave her a grateful smile. “I was als-”

Raised voices stole the words from Tyrion’s lips. They turned towards the cacophony. A fight had broken out on the jousting grounds. Dust was clouding the air and she could hear raised voices, the clanking of armour. The crowd had gotten up from their seats and were surging towards the source of the commotion. All these people - they were always hungering for bloodshed. 

Brienne stood, peering over the heads of the crowds. “What in the name of the gods…” 

“Enough!” Robert roared. His voice carried through the air and the crowd stilled and then dissolved. Brienne watched in horror as the two men in the centre of the commotion were revealed. 

Jaime. 

And Ser Rodryk. 

The two men got unsteadily to their feet, their lips bleeding and dust coating their cheeks. Ser Rodryk held his wrist in his hand, while Jaime was sporting a large reddening patch on his cheek. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Robert demanded. 

Jaime’s expression was blank. Ser Rodryk spat on the ground, his expression sullen. 

“Your brother-in-law,” he growled, “attacked me.” 

Robert turned to Jaime, his jaw clenched. “Is that true?” 

Jaime spread his arms in a show of indifference. “I have grown quite wary of that obnoxious expression of his.” 

A bubble of laughter exploded from the crowd but it faded as a man stood. His very presence commanded respect, Brienne could tell. As he walked over to Jaime from his seat, the gathered crowd - King Robert included - seemed to shrivel away from him. 

“Jaime,” Tywin said, his voice terse. “You will return to your chambers at once. I will deal with you later.” 

Jaime gave a bow - his acquiesce - and left the area, taking long strides like he couldn't wait to be away from it all. Brienne watched as the maesters attended to Ser Rodryk, and then turned to Tyrion. 

“My Lord…” she said. “I hope you will-”

“Yes, yes, my lady. Go.” 

Brienne took off through the crowds, winding her way down to the exit. She felt large and unwieldy, and was sure people were shooting her dirty looks for blocking their views, but she didn’t care. 

She had to find Jaime. 

***

Jaime knew he had been stupid. But what else was he meant to do? Wait? When he knew the truth? When the offender stood right before him, haughty and smug? 

In a sense, it was Varys's fault. He was the one who couldn't seem to wait for the joust to finish. 

Jaime had been in the competitors tent when he had spotted the top of the eunuch's bald head. Varys moved slowly through the crowd - almost painfully so - and Jaime waited until he was close enough for him to smell the lavender oils on his skin. 

“Well?” Jaime asked. He knew Tyrion had spoken to him. And he knew Varys wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have news. 

Varys gave Jaime a deep bow and Jaime brushed it off. “No need for all that Lord Varys.” His squire - a young cousin of his - had handed him his helmet. Jaime took it and tucked it under his arm. 

“I have the information you requested, my lord,” Varys said, his voice growing low. 

He always spoke like that. As though the person who he was talking about was right behind them. 

“And?” 

“One of my little birds was helping a knight dress this morning. He saw a large bruise on his stomach.” 

Jaime blinked. “Well… he’s a knight. It’s not unusu-”

“And last night he was seen escorting Lady Brienne to her rooms.” 

Jaime’s throat went dry. 

He knew it. He _knew_ it was him.

His eyes found Ser Rodryk across the tent. A squire was clasping his cloak on his back, the Tully sigil on proud display. Jaime watched, fury pooling in his gut, as he took his helmet from the young boy and marched out of the room, holding his head up high. 

_Aloof bastard_. Jaime gripped the dagger at his belt. 

“My lord,” Varys said. “I’d suggest you don’t do anything you regret.” 

Jaime wasn’t listening anymore. His ears were buzzing, a high pitched whining like a wasp had settled in his ear canal. He stormed out of the tent, straight to Ser Rodryk’s side. He grabbed his elbow, jerking him around. 

“What the f-”

“Where exactly do you get off walking around like an entitled prick?” Jaime asked. His words came out like a hiss through his teeth. He wasn't usually one to fly to anger. He knew how to be contained, how to channel his rage. But now it was spilling out and around them, black as tar. 

“Excuse me?” Ser Rodryk sounded disgusted.

Jaime ground his teeth. “I know what you did to Lady Brienne last night.” 

“I didn’t do anything to the sow. She is the one who began acting like a deranged cat in heat.” 

“Did she?” Jaime snarled. 

Ser Rodryk had an amused smile on his face, though his eyes seemed dead. He gestured to himself. “You genuinely believe _I_ would ever be interested in _her_? She threw herself at me. When I told her it was improper, she attacked me.” 

The next thing Jaime knew he had the point of his dagger below the Adam’s Apple on Ser Rodryk’s throat. Rodryk’s breath seemed to stick. “Do you know what the punishment is for harming a noble woman?” Jaime asked. Rodryk let out a whimper. Jaime curled his lip at him. “From your face, I’m guessing you do. But let me make it very clear… whatever the punishment you imagine, I will make sure you receive one even worse. I will have you castrated, and leave you squirming and bleeding for the dogs if you ever go near Brienne again, do you understand me?” 

Rodryk was catatonic now, his eyes shining with fear. He gave a shaky nod. Jaime let go of him and he stumbled backwards. Jaime threw him a dirty look and turned. 

Which is when Ser Rodryk’s helmet hit him square at the back of his head. Jaime skull throbbed with pain. He turned around and punched Ser Rodryk right across the jaw. Then they were fighting, blows raining down on each other, scratching and punching. There was the sharp smell of blood and the excited screams of onlookers. 

When Robert broke up the fight, Jaime was pleased to see that he seemed to have injured Ser Rodryk’s wrist. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Robert demanded. He stood before them, imposing, his hair long and blowing in the slight breeze. Cersei watched on, an amused half-smile on her face.

Ser Rodryk spat on the ground, a glob of saliva and blood mixing in with the dirt. “Your brother-in-law,” he spat, “attacked me.” 

Robert turned to Jaime, eyes flashing dangerously. “Is that true?” 

Jaime had to bite back the venomous words on his tongue. From the corner of his eye, he could see his father’s disgusted expression. “I have grown quite wary of that obnoxious expression of his.” 

Laughter erupted around him. But Jaime could only see his father, rising in his chair. He knew that expression on his face. That expression meant nothing but horrible things for Jaime. 

But then he found Brienne, tall and prominent in the thick crowd. Even from this distance, he could see the soft, concerned look in her eyes. He could see the way they were trained on him, and only him. 

It had been worth it. 

Anything at all was worth it for that look. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me even though I've been so terrible about updating. I really appreciate you all so much ❤


	12. Chapter 12

**TWELVE.**

Brienne found Jaime in one of the corridors. He was pacing the stone floor, his brow furrowed. He looked so lovely that for a moment, Brienne forgot how to breathe. 

“Ser Jaime…” 

He turned to look at her, and the lines by his forehead smoothened out. “My lady.” 

She hated to admit - even to herself - how intensely she loved hearing him call her that. 

Before Brienne could say anything, Jaime spoke. “I’m sorry.” 

The words were a shock - like ice water thrown on her bare skin. “I… what?” 

“I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself. I know that… you didn’t want to tell me. About him. Attacking you. I’m sorry I went behind your back and found out. I’m sorry I caused a scene.” 

She was staring at him now, incapable of forming words. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice warned her about the serving girls who were walking up and down the hallway, warned her about the little spies Cersei had listening in through crevices. But she couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. He looked back at her, and while his expression was smooth, unblemished, there was something in his eyes that showed his shattered soul. 

How she’d misjudged him. How wrong she’d been when she thought the Golden Lion had a charmed life. Her first impression was that he was the kind of man who could get away with murder, and yet here he was, standing before her, expecting to be punished even for his moments of absolute unselfishness. 

How wrong she’d been about the man she’d once branded an irredeemable Kingslayer. 

Something possessed her, in that moment, and though the rational part of her knew it was wildly inappropriate, she grabbed his hands in hers, squeezing them between her fingers. Heat scalded her where their skin met, sparks of a fire that seared through her, made her gut flip. 

Jaime started, staring down at where their hands met, and though Brienne felt a sharp slice of anxiety, worried that he was too much of a gentleman to pull away, she held on. 

“Ser Jaime,” she said, and her voice was low. “It’s I who should apologise.” 

He looked up at her, his green eyes fizzing with confusion and something she couldn’t read. 

Brienne barrelled on, worried that if she stopped the words would get lost. “I have always believed I was different from others. Not because I wanted to be, but because I had no choice. I couldn’t be like anyone else, so what was the point of trying? But when it came to you… I was as guilty as everyone else. I judged you from the stories I heard about you, from the vicious rumours that people spread about you and I… I’m sorry, Ser Jaime. I’m sorry it took me so long to realise that you are not what they say you are.” 

Jaime blinked. Her words had rendered him dumb. Brienne realised her fingers were growing sweaty and dropped his hands, hastily. Jaime didn’t react, he was still watching her, his eyes fixed on her face like he was trying to absorb everything her features into his memory. Then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. 

“Thank you, Brienne,” he said. His voice came out scratchy. 

Brienne ducked her head, hiding the faint blush on her cheeks. Her arms were still covered in goosebumps, though her coat was thick and warm. They remained in silence for a long moment, a moment that was shockingly loud. A moment that was almost painfully heavy with things unsaid. Eventually, he gave her a lopsided smile. 

“Unfortunately, my lady,” he said. “I believe the rumours of us will persist.” 

“Rumours?” she asked, hoarsely. 

“A little birdie told my sister that you and I were found in a cupboard together.” 

The sudden change in conversation was giving her whiplash. She blinked at him, at a loss for words. She managed only a small, confused _oh_. 

Jaime seemed unperturbed by her laconic response. He continued, “I imagine if one of Varys’s little birds discovers me sleeping in your room tonight, then it will be assumed we truly have conspired to have an affair.” 

“Sleeping in my room?” she asked, bewildered. 

“Unless you would prefer to sleep in mine?” He blinked, affecting a look of far too much innocence. 

“I do not…” 

“Pardon me, Lady Brienne, but I won’t have you sleeping alone tonight.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the field. “I am aware you can handle yourself against _him_ , and any other men he might bring along with him. But _I_ won’t be able to sleep from the worry.” He raised his eyebrows. “For my sake, I would prefer it if you were close by.” He waved his hand, as if pre-empting her next words. “Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s hellish on the back, but at least I’ll be able to get some rest.” 

She continued staring at him. Was this a joke? Was he pulling her leg? Was he going to turn around and laugh at her for believing that he cared about what happened to her? 

Jaime looked at her, and there was a look in his eyes she’d never seen before, something soft and conflicted, and at the same time thrilling. She shivered. 

“I hope you don’t snore,” she muttered. 

He grinned, dark green eyes alighting. “I’m told that I do. They’re practically growls. Like a true Golden Lion.” 

***

By the time Tywin called Jaime to his chambers, Jaime had exhausted himself imagining the hundreds of different ways his father could punish him. 

It was late. Tywin had not been able to tear himself away from the wedding celebrations until after the bedding ceremony. He wasted no time, however, calling Jaime as soon as he was back in his rooms. 

Tywin sat at his desk. He didn’t look up from the letter he was reading when Jaime walked in, simply gestured impatiently to the chair before him. After an excruciatingly long moment, Tywin looked up. Jaime had always marvelled at how easily Tywin could wipe away any expression from his face. He couldn’t read the look in his father’s eyes if he tried. 

“You have embarrassed me today,” Tywin said. 

The words cut through Jaime’s flesh, but he kept his voice light when he answered. “I was simply protecting a lady’s honour. Isn’t that in the knight’s code?” 

Tywin’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally. His lips pressed together. “Regardless of what Ser Rodryk might or might not have done, scenes like that, made in public while you are representing our house will not be tolerated. Do you understand me?” 

Jaime looked at his boots. His jaw hurt from where his teeth were clenched together. 

“I said,” Tywin repeated, drawing out his words, “Do. You. Understand. Me?” 

“Yes.”

“Good.” Tywin crossed his arms and regarded Jaime. “Despite your theatrics, Lord Tully is still willing to have you marry his daughter. You both will announce the engagement in three day’s time. You may go now.” 

The words were said with such indifference, that it took Jaime a moment to understand them. His jaw grew slack. “But father-”

“You are not in a position to negotiate terms with me,” Tywin said, his voice tight. “Go now.” 

“I _can’t_ marry her. She’s-”

“You can, and you will. As I said, this is not a discussion. This is the future of our house and you are the oldest male. This is your duty. I will discuss the matter with Lord Tully and inform you of when the announcement is to be made.” 

Tywin had turned back to his letter, and Jaime knew that the conversation was over. Nothing he said or did now would make any difference. Tywin had made up his mind, and when his mind was made, not even the Gods themselves could change it. 

Jaime dragged himself out of the room like a sleepwalker. His mind rocked back and forth, like a ship on tumultuous waters. He had gone to Riverrun to see if Lysa would be a suitable wife, but he realised now that he had never _actually_ considered the reality of spending the rest of his life by that woman’s side. It would be hell, he thought. Worse than hell.

An eternity at the side of a vacuous, horrible woman was a fate worse than death. Jaime’s skin felt hot and itchy. He hated it. 

And what would putting up with Lysa Tully be without Brienne? Even if she turned down Cersei’s offer to be one of the Gold Cloaks - an idea that had given Jaime shudders ever since Cersei had told him about it - she would more likely accompany Catelyn to the icy hellscape of Winterfell instead of following Lysa to Casterly Rock. Or else she would return home to Tarth. Either way, she wasn’t going to be by his side.

The idea made Jaime feel cold and hollow. 

Three days. 

It felt like the last three days of his life. 

Not knowing where to go and what to do, Jaime let his feet decide once again. And once again, they took him straight to Brienne.

If he wasn't to ever see her again, he was going to spend as much time by her side as he could. 

***

Brienne could not sleep. There was residual fear from the night before, and anticipatory anxiety about the next day - she was being forced to wear a garish ballgown for the post-wedding feast and was dreading making her entrance. She also had to make her decision; would she accept Queen Cersei’s offer, and agree to join the Kingsguard? Was everyone else right in believing it was a trap? What were her other options? Go to Winterfell? Go back to Riverrun? Her thoughts swarmed and rocked, like a stormy sea. 

But most of all, she was overly conscious of the presence of Jaime Lannister in her room, on the blankets she’d set out for him on the floor.

If someone had told her even a year prior, that the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister, heir of Casterly Rock, one of the most handsome men in the Seven Kingdoms and brother of the future queen would be sleeping on the floor of her room after spending an entire evening drinking wine with her as they talked about his brother and her father, she would have laughed. But here he was. She could hear his soft, even breaths in the silence of her chambers. So far he hadn’t snored even a little, but he tossed and turned as he slept, letting out faint sighs ever so often. 

Her heart felt heavy. 

There had been a strangeness within her, a strangeness that had taken root weeks ago, when he’d told her the truth about the Mad King in that quiet, hoarse voice of his. It had grown, this strangeness, over the last few weeks. Had grown stronger when she’d seen him watching her fight with awe in his eyes, and when she’d seen him reading with that look of furrowed concentration on his face, and when they’d been trapped in that musty closet together, his closeness overwhelming and unnerving and a little bit frightening. 

It hadn’t been frightening the way Rodryk’s presence had been. It was something else altogether. 

She hadn’t wanted to think about it, this strangeness. It had been an itch, a minor irritation that she could ignore. But now it had grown so strong, it started staining her dreams, had started entering her waking thoughts. All her latest memories had been coloured with his presence - that night on the ramparts, the way he stood up for her with Ser Rodryk, the dinners by his side and the days in his glow. 

And it wasn't just the heat in her gut that dripped lower when he touched her, when he smiled at her, when he spoke. It was more than that. It was a flutter in her chest and a bleeding yearning somewhere so deep inside her, she was afraid of pulling it out. 

Only a fool such as she could fall for someone like Jaime Lannister. 

Jaime Lannister. He was a vile oathbreaker who had hideous perversions, and yet he was also Jaime Lannister who was kind and intelligent and handsome beyond words. The Jaime Lannister she had heard about in Tarth was vicious, a rich brat who thought everyone else was beneath him. _Her_ Jaime Lannister was witty and thoughtful and funny and damaged. 

Now that she knew his true nature, she knew she was setting herself up for pain. Like Renly, he would never see her that way, and she was an idiot for allowing her feelings to get this far. She rolled over to her side, pressing her eyes closed.

Gods, if only sleep would come. 

 

When Brienne opened her eyes next, the sunlight was filtering hazily through the window. She pushed herself up on her elbows and yawned. She was getting out of bed when she almost tripped on Jaime. 

“Good morning to you too,” he groaned, rolling onto his side. He looked up at her with sleep-addled eyes. Something in her heart twinged. 

“Sorry,” she muttered. 

“Sorry?” he asked, disbelief lacing his voice. “Gods, what’s gotten into you? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologise.” 

It was amazing how easily he could annoy her. She scowled down at him. “We have a feast to attend. You should probably be getting ready.” 

He seemed unconcerned as he stretched his arms. He looked for all the world like a sleepy cat. “Gods, I’m terribly bored of all these feasts. Aren’t you?”

“It’s your sister’s wedding.” 

Jaime ignored this. “For my own wedding, I’m not going to have so many events. A joust. A feast. The wedding. That’s it. Why have all these bloody festivities for days on end? Who is this for?” 

Brienne tried to ignore the way her heart was hammering. She walked past him to where a basin with water had been set out for her. She couldn’t help but thinking of this wedding. _His_ wedding. Jaime, with Lysa by his side, promising to love each other forever. The thought made her feel ill. 

“The bride, I suppose,” she said. 

He didn’t respond. She splashed water on her face. She couldn’t see him but she could feel his gaze boring into her. The silence stretched out for a moment, long and taut. 

“Not you, though,” he said, softly. 

“I’d like dancing at my wedding,” she said.

"Brienne," he said, and his voice was soft, feathered around the edges. "You surprise me." 

"Do I?" she asked. She was trying to keep her tone mocking, but it was hard to even out her breaths, let alone control her voice. 

"I like it." 

Brienne swallowed. She splashed some more water on her face, just to give her hands something to do. 

"Sometimes," Jaime continued, "I think you might be the most surprising woman I have ever met." 

“I don't kn-"

Her words were cut short by an adamant knocking at the door. Brienne turned to Jaime, horrified, water still dripping in rivulets down her face. 

“Hide,” she hissed. 

Jaime grinned widely. “I think we just ought to come clean, tell the world about us, don’t you think?”

“This is not the time,” she snapped. 

The knocking continued to grow in fervour. Jaime leapt up from the blankets on the ground and looked around. 

“The cupboard,” she whispered. 

“You seem very intent on stuffing me in closets, my lady. Any particular reason for that?" 

“Last time it was _you_ who dragged _me_ into a closet. Go!” She waved him inside and shut the door quickly, her back against it. She took a moment to calm herself, despite the persistent thudding, and then spoke. “Come in!” 

The door slammed open and Lysa sauntered in, regal and elegant as always, clad in a bright green dress. 

“Brienne, why the fuck does it take you so long to open the door? And why is your face wet?” She stopped in her tracks, staring down at the mess of blankets and pillows on the ground. “Gods, do you just kick all your bedding off the bed at night?” 

“I’m very fidgety,” she said, nodding, a little too profusely. She thought she heard snickering from the closet, but perhaps she was imagining it. She picked up a towel and began dabbing her face with her. 

Lysa wrinkled her nose, but said nothing. She perched daintily on the edge of Brienne’s bed, and then looked expectantly up at her with her blue Tully eyes. “Well?” Brienne was sure she looked utterly bewildered because Lysa rolled her eyes and sighed. “I’m sure you know that Ser Jaime and I are to announce our engagement soon. Which means that I must secure his affections as soon as possible, or else it will be a dreary engagement indeed.”

Brienne’s stomach dropped to her knees. Soon? What was _soon?_ Her eyes darted to the closet and then back at Lysa. Lysa gave her a long suffering sigh. 

“Brienne… have you found me information on the Kingslayer or not?” 

She’d forgotten. She’d _completely_ forgotten what she had promised to do for Lysa. She had not only developed feelings for a man meant to be betrothed to her Lady, but a man she was meant to be  _spying_ on. Now she had to decide what was less embarrassing - revealing to Lysa that Jaime Lannister was hiding in her closet in his bedclothes, or letting Jaime overhear that she’d been instructed to gather information on him for Lysa. Neither option seemed very appealing. Her stomach was a ruin of knots and she wasn’t sure why it was making her throat close up. She was trying to come up with a way out of this, a way to side-step this conversation, but the simmering heat under the skin was making it hard to think. 

_Ser Jaime and I are to announce our engagement soon._

Her eyes were prickling. 

“Well, he… doesn’t really like to be called Kingslayer,” Brienne offered. Her voice was faint. 

Lysa’s lip curled. This information didn't impress her. “Is that all?” 

“He… uh… never visits brothels.” 

Lysa let out a derisive scoff. “ _That’s_ the information you have for me? How are any of these things meant to help me? Don’t you know anything else about him? You were meant to do this _weeks_ ago! Do you think I  _want_ to be married to a man who isn't interested in me?" 

She knew he had difficulty reading, and that his father was cruel, and that his sister made him feel like he was stupid. She knew he loved his little brother more than anything in the Seven Kingdoms, and that he was loyal to the women - woman - he loved, and that he wasn’t shallow with his affections. She knew he watched her fight with awe and admiration instead of anger and jealousy like the other knights did. She knew he was a good man, an honourable man, a man who saved her from Ser Rodryk and who spoke to her with respect and saved the whole of King’s Landing from certain death. 

But Lady Lysa wouldn’t care about any of that. And even if she did, Brienne didn’t want to share. Everything she knew of him was between her and Ser Jaime, and even if he wasn’t hiding in her closet, she would not want to betray the things he’d told her in confidence. 

“He doesn't... open up much,” Brienne said. Her voice was still wobbling. “He's too much of a gentleman to speak of what he likes in women. I attempted to ask him questions but…” she tapered off, unsure what to say. Lysa seemed to make her own assumptions though, because she sighed and shrugged. 

“I suppose it was too much to expect you to find out anything. You're hardly the most genial of people.” She ruffled her thick hair and then plastered a smile on. “I’ll suppose I’ll have to use my feminine wiles. I’ll see you at the feast, Brienne.” 

Brienne nodded and waited for the door to click shut behind her. Then, she turned her worried gaze on the cupboard. 

When Jaime emerged, he wasn’t smiling, and there was a look in his eyes that made Brienne’s heart sink to her gut. 

“Ser Jaime,” she said, quickly. “It wasn’t…” 

He held up his hand. “You don’t have to explain,” he said, but his voice had been blunted, like he was holding something inside that he was afraid of letting out.

Brienne continued to babble. “She ordered me to, and since Lady Catelyn is…” 

“My lady, truly, no explanations are necessary.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose I have a truly exciting feast to look forward to, with Lady Lysa planning on using her _feminine wiles_ on me.” 

“I suppose you do,” Brienne echoed. Her voice sounded far away. 

Jaime gave her a nod and a slight bow. “My lady,” he said, and then, without another word, he swept out of the room. Brienne watched the door shut behind him, and promised herself that she wouldn't cry.  ****

She couldn't even keep that promise to herself. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! I know it's been ages, but here's one of the advantages of self-distancing. I finally have time to write for fun!! I hope you enjoy this chapter! ❤ thanks again or sticking with this story

**THIRTEEN.** ****

Pain swept through Jaime in waves. Peaking and ebbing. Cresting till he felt he couldn’t breathe, and then retreating just as suddenly. 

He’d never felt anything quite like it before. 

He left Brienne’s room in a daze, and wandered around the castle instead, not being able to bear the idea of going back to his own, desolate chambers. 

Had Brienne truly agreed to help Lysa seduce Jaime? Is that why she’d spent so much time with him? Because her _chosen lady_ had ordered her to? He should have found he whole affair amusing - Lysa could likely tell that Jaime found her intolerable, and so she’d sent Brienne to him to find out what she could do to ensnare him. It should have been hilarious, but it was driving him utterly mad. He felt like horseshit. 

Had it all been a farce? Brienne’s interest in him? Had it just been due to her Lady Lysa’s instructions to find out all she could about the Kingslayer that Brienne had bothered to interact with him at all? If Jaime hadn’t been in her closet when Lysa had come to collect her findings, then would she have told her everything? About the Mad King, about Cersei, about Jaime’s trouble learning to read… all the things he’d confided in her, believing she would keep them to herself? 

Jaime’s thoughts shoved and swarmed. He was on the ramparts now, gazing down into the courtyard of the castle, where the Gold Cloaks were standing in formation, getting orders from their Commander. 

The air up here was thick and salty. The ocean air burned his nostrils and brought tears to his eyes. His thoughts returned to the night on the Riverrun ramparts, Brienne by his side, so close he could feel her warmth through his clothes. 

He shivered. 

He was still wrapped up in eddying thoughts when he felt a hand on his hip. He jerked around, and Tyrion went reeling backwards. 

“Gods,” Jaime said. “I didn’t hear you.” 

“You weren’t at the feast,” Tyrion said. 

Jaime blinked. How long had he been up here? He focused suddenly on the hue of the sky. It was well into afternoon. 

“Seven Hells,” he said. 

Tyrion grinned, a slow, wicked smile. “It’s kind of nice to not be the troublemaker brother for a change.” He looked remarkably sober. Jaime ran a hand through his hair. It was tangled from the sea breeze. Tyrion’s grin faltered. “Is everything alright?” 

“I’m fatigued by the sheer number of these events,” Jaime said, with a sigh. He slumped back against the rampart wall. “I feel like I shall grow old in this very castle, still celebrating my darling sister’s marriage.” 

Tyrion hummed thoughtfully, though his glittering eyes were fixed on Jaime. “Father seems to think you're rebelling against the news he gave you yesterday.” 

Jaime turned back to the sea, and his hands tightened on the railing. “Funny how Father only loves rebellions when Robert is the one leading them.” 

Tyrion laughed. He made his way to Jaime’s side, his gaze barely making it over the rampart wall. “Would you like me to take care of it?” 

The words were so absurd, it took a moment for them to register. Jaime turned to his younger brother, brow furrowing. “Take care of what?” 

“Lady Lysa.” 

Jaime stared at him. “ _Take care,_ as in…” 

“I don’t mean _kill_ her, Jaime. Gods. What do you think I am?” 

Jaime smirked. “I would never underestimate you, dear brother.” His smile dipped, and then vanished. “How would you take care of it then?” 

“Varys has… informed me… that Lady Lysa has been involved in a variety of activities not befitting a lady of her stature.” 

Jaime rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” 

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“I don’t want to be that person, Tyrion.” 

Tyrion nodded, slowly. “I understand.” 

They stood beside each other in silence for a long, drawn-out moment. Jaime turned, so that he was looking down at Tyrion. He could feel his pulse still thumping out a slow, melancholic tune under his skin. 

“Tyrion,” Jaime said, hesitating. “What… do you think of Brienne?” 

Tyrion shifted. “Brienne of Tarth?” His voice was laced with confusion. 

“Do you think she’s… trustworthy?” 

Tyrion didn’t even hesitate. “Of course I do.” 

“She is very honourable.” 

“She is.” 

“And she’s…” 

“Jaime,” Tyrion said, cutting him off. “If this is you asking for my approval, you have it.” 

Jaime blinked at him. “What?” 

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Father was right about you. You can be shockingly oblivious sometimes.” 

“I don’t understand what you’re impl-” 

“You wanted to know why you weren’t jealous watching Cersei get married? I think this might be the reason.” 

“You think I…,” The realisation hit Jaime like a ton of bricks. He felt the air get knocked out of his lungs. “Oh.” 

“She fought off three sellswords in a bar protecting an innocent girl. She kicked your Golden arse in the Riverrun tourney. She truly thought you were being cruel because she’d spent her whole childhood surrounded by pathetic men who couldn’t see her worth…,” Tyrion shook his head. “Why do I know all that? Oh yes… because you haven’t stopped talking about her since the night we arrived in Riverrun.” 

Jaime’s mouth had gone dry. Too dry. He swallowed. 

That was why he hadn’t been able to get Brienne of Tarth out of his thoughts. Why he thrilled in seeing her flush, why he craved spending time with her, why a part of him had desperately wanted her to like him. 

He’d thought that it was her undying loyalty and her honesty and sense of honour that had enchanted him. And yes, it was all those things. But the camaraderie he felt for her had grown. Now it was… something more. 

Why had it taken him so long to realise this? 

He knew that protecting her was worth experiencing his father’s wrath. He felt better around her, like she was a salve to the burn of his everyday life. He hadn’t lied when he’d told her that he would not have been able to sleep for the fear of men attacking her in the night. 

And there was a part of him, he realised now, that yearned for her. In more ways than just the emotional. 

“I didn’t…,” Jaime ran his fingers through his hair. “Oh Gods, that explains a lot.” 

Tyrion shook his head, his expression a mix of affection and incredulity, like Jaime was truly the idiot they all believed he was. But how could Jaime have known? How could he have understood? From the moment he was born, he’d only loved Cersei, and loving Cersei had felt as different from loving Brienne as winter was to summer. 

Tyrion spoke again. “She spoke to me at the feast.” 

Jaime cut a glance at Tyrion, his heart picking up speed in his chest. “Oh?” 

“Did you two have a fight?” 

Jaime shrugged, noncommittally. Tyrion waited a moment, but when Jaime did not elaborate, he continued. “She said that she wasn’t sure if you wished to speak with her, but she had a message to pass on to you. She said that you… confided in her about something, and that she is worried she may have lost your trust. She wanted me to tell you that she did not tell a soul. She agreed to do something extremely un-honourable, and for that she is ashamed of herself, but she didn’t go through with it. She gives you her word.” 

Tyrion was still watching him, hawk-like, eager to catch a hint from his expression of the meaning behind Brienne’s words. Jaime kept his face impassive, though he felt relief so strong it made him light-headed. 

They dissolved back into silence again. It seemed like it could stretch on forever. Could Jaime trust Brienne? Could he allow himself that vulnerability again? 

A thud in the doorway commanded their attention. A Gold Cloak was standing at attention, blinking confusedly seeing the two of them up on the ramparts. 

“Lord Tyrion,” he said. “You are requested in the Great Hall. You too, Ser Jaime.” 

Tyrion and Jaime shared a look before Tyrion told the knight they would be there. The knight did not move. 

“I am to escort you there,” he said. 

This meant that it was something serious. Jaime rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I don’t suppose we have much of a choice,” he said, lightness to his tone. 

The guard did not reply. There was nothing left to do but follow. 

 

The guard stopped outside the doors of the Great Hall and waited for Tyrion and Jaime to enter first. Jaime sent him a peculiar glance, but the guard’s face revealed nothing at all. 

Who had commanded them here? Their father? It seemed likely. Suddenly, Jaime’s gut clenched. Was this it? Was this the announcement of his marriage? Was him not showing up for the feast the last straw? It must have been. His father wanted to punish him and what better way to do so than to steal his future out from under him? Jaime's breath was going shallow in his chest. 

His father stood on the dais, next to Cersei, his face blank as always. On the Iron Throne sat Robert. His expression was far more readable - he wore the face of someone mistrustful and wary. He was looking at Cersei, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime, my queen,” said the Gold Cloak. 

“What’s all this?” Tyrion asked. The room was empty apart from the king, the kingsguard, the Riverrun party - Lord Hoster, The Blackfish and Catelyn Tully - and the Lannisters. A peculiar gathering, Jaime noted. Not the kind of gathering meant for a wedding announcement. 

His gaze met Cersei’s and he felt a sharp chill run down his spine. 

“It has come to my attention,” Cersei said, crisply, “that my family has been insulted.” 

There was a murmur among the Riverrun party. Jaime shot a look at Tyrion, but his younger brother was frowning towards the dais, lost in his own thoughts. 

“Get to the point,” Tywin said. 

Their father didn’t know what the announcement was about? What was Cersei playing at? Jaime widened his eyes at her, but she ignored him, her chin set. She gestured to one of the guards. He gave a low bow and left the room. Deafening, thick silence filled the room. Jaime felt a prickle of discomfort and uncertainty on the back of his neck. And then, they brought them in - half dressed and tousled - and threw them on the floor by Cersei’s feet. 

Jaime stared at Lysa’s half torn corset and Petyr Baelish’s bare legs. 

“We caught them in one of the old guard towers,” Cersei said, icily. 

Catelyn looked horrified. Lord Hoster’s eyes were practically bugging out of his head. The Blackfish looked furious and horrified. Next to Cersei, Tywin stood stiffly, his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Lady Lysa,” Cersei continued, “was meant to announce her marriage to my brother soon, was she not? And yet here she is, behaving like some common harlot.” 

Jaime’s breath stuck in his throat. On a normal occasion such as this one - when a member of a noble house was caught doing something unseemly - people were expected to turn the other cheek, not humiliate a lady in front of her family. Lysa, to her credit, wasn’t weeping. She had her jaw clenched in defiance, her eyes as wild as her hair. Petyr was cowering away, not showing his face. 

Before Jaime knew what he was doing, he had stepped up, and was helping Lysa off the floor. Tyrion sprung into action as well. He tore the cloaks off some of the Kingsguard members and handed them to Jaime, who draped one around Lysa’s shoulders and handed the other to Petyr, who snatched it without making eye contact. 

“Your men have mistreated me and humiliated me,” Lysa said shrilly, pulling the cloak around her shoulders. She was looking directly at Cersei, her teeth clenched. “And now you bring me here and _insult_ me.” 

“How could I not?” Cersei asked, turning to her. “When you have proven that you would not, and _could_ not, be loyal to my brother.” 

Cersei raised her eyebrows, and Jaime got the uncomfortable, distinct feeling that Cersei was sending Lysa a secret message, one of threat and of victory. 

_He’s mine._

Lysa’s lower lip quivered. She knew she had lost. Whatever game these two women had been playing, it had ended with Cersei being the victor. How could it have ended any other way? 

“I would rather _die_ than become a Lannister," Lysa spat. She made her way into the open arms of Catelyn. The Blackfish wore a hard, unyielding look, but Lord Hoster was more composed. As grim and stoic as always. 

Cersei had a smug look on her face. Jaime turned to Tyrion. He was about to say something, but then he saw the look on Tyrion's face and he knew - _he knew -_ from his expression… this is what Varys had told him. The secret about Lysa. The thing that Tyrion was willing to use against the Tullys to break their betrothal. Jaime felt bile rise up in his throat. 

“This is a matter for Lord Hoster and I to discuss in private…,” Tywin began, but Lord Hoster stood up. 

“My daughter has every right to choose the man she wishes to marry,” he said, sharply. “And in this case, I agree with her. I would not wish for her to marry a man from a family such as yours.” 

Tywin looked like he’d been slapped. Lord Hoster gestured for his family to follow him and made for the door, but Tywin made a hand motion and the guards stopped them in their tracks. 

“ _Your_ daughter is the one who is no longer maiden, and sleeping with a boy with no name and no title in a dirty tower,” Tywin ground out. 

“And your son?” Lord Hoster shot back. “Are we to believe you do not know his perversions?” He gestured at Cersei. 

Fury made Tywin’s face go purple. He lifted his hand, but Robert spoke instead. 

“I think it’s safe to say this marriage isn’t happening,” he said. “No more discussion. Lord Hoster, you may take your leave.” 

Tywin sent Robert a withering glare but said nothing. The guards moved aside and the Tully’s - with Lysa and Petyr leading the pack - stormed out of the room. Jaime’s throat felt raw and rough, like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. 

Cersei looked at him, her lips pulled up in a puppetesque smile. Goosebumps broke out across Jaime’s arms. 

He might have been done with Cersei, but she was certainly not done with him. 


End file.
